


Cats a'Prowling on Their Beat

by chapstick_dtwof



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Requited Love, Slow Burn, i wrote this as a form of pure escapism as our democracy crumbles, literally nothing happens in this, slowish burn given the relative length of the fic, there is plenty of cursing but nothing nasty, this is very self indulgent, thus the teen and up rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28736484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chapstick_dtwof/pseuds/chapstick_dtwof
Summary: Set a few months after the revolution, Connor gets attached to a rough-around-the-edges cat. Antics ensue. Feelings are dealt with.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 18
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing much happens here. i was driven to write this self-indulgent fluff to escape a little from the state of the country.

It was a Casual Friday. At least, it was Connor’s Casual Friday, imposed and enforced by Hank.

 _“I don’t know— you could wear a nice sweater. Or ditch the blazer, at least_ , _Jesus H”_ Hank had mumbled a few months earlier, apparently sick of Connor’s well-kept, well-tailored work attire.

Connor didn’t fully understand the insistence, but understood enough to know the request was well-intentioned. So, Casual Friday was the hard-fought compromise they’d settled on. Connor couldn’t permanently part with a good blazer, but recognized all the other detectives at the station were business casual _at best_. Plus, a laid-back appearance put many interviewees at ease, after all. It was something CyberLife was too lofty and proud to understand or admit. And…more personally, Connor knew that Hank wanted to see him a little less strait-laced. He trusted Hank.

On that Casual Friday in mid-April, Connor wore a thick, exceptionally soft grey sweater. He had to admit, begrudgingly, that the sweater felt nicer on his skin than the usual starched button-down. His fingers fiddled with his sleeve absentmindedly as he looked out of the passenger-side window on his way to work.

The Weather Gods of Detroit decided they ought to unleash one more nasty winter storm before Spring could elbow its way in. Icy rain and sharp sleet had been falling relentlessly for the whole week, punctuated by the occasional snowfall. The conditions reminded Connor of the night he searched, desperate and frenzied, through his zen garden for an “emergency exit.” Connor knew that Hank was reminded of ice-slicks and overturned cars and Red-Ice. Both partners were a little on edge. But they’d been through much worse than some bad weather. And they each had the other’s presence to ground them.

15 minutes from the station, Connor’s passive gaze out at the sludgy salted roads and sidewalks turned to an alert search. What was that the car had just passed? In a matter of milliseconds, he accessed his own memory from the moment before and locked in on exactly what had caught his attention. It was a cat.

More specifically, it was a small, mostly white cat with a fluffy tail. Its white fur was just as dingy and dirty as the yellow-greying snow blanketing the city’s streets, and bursts of sandy pigmented fur decorated its 4 paws and its little face. Its _cute, tiny, little face._ With calm eyes the color of green tea, the cat’s gaze had lazily followed Hank’s car as it passed.

Surely the cat was cold, Connor thought as he returned from his memory. The temperatures were nearly below freezing, and that didn’t even account for windchill and the bone chilling wintry precipitation. A phantom pain pushed uncomfortably on his chest at the thought of the poor creature.

Connor felt the sudden, intense urge to turn around and retrieve the cat.

But strays were everywhere, right? Connor had seen strays before. He couldn’t take home every single one. He knew that. So why was he so eager to save _this_ one? With thoughts and arguments flooding his mind, Connor forced himself to stop rationalizing. He was a deviant, he reminded himself quickly. Hank had been urging Connor to lean into irrationality and desire at every turn since their reunion in front of the Chicken Feed.

In all, 3 seconds had passed since Connor spotted the stray. He made his decision.

“Hank, pull over” Connor commanded, serious but not impolite. He unbuckled his seatbelt and twisted himself backward in the direction of the animal who had watched the car pass.

Hank slowed down, confused. He checked the rearview mirror to ensure no cars were riding him, and gently turned the steering wheel toward the curb.

“What is it?” The Lieutenant sounded worried. He slowed a little more and switched on the car’s warning lights.

“I’ll be right back” Connor explained. Hank didn’t have time to ask for further explanation. Connor was already out of the car.

“What in the Jesus, Mary, and fucking Jospeh are you—” was the last thing Connor heard before all of his audio processing abilities zeroed in on finding the cat.

Connor approached the head of the alleyway slowly, scanning through the corner of a building for heat signatures. By the time both of his feet hit the pavement, he’d already downloaded a fairly sizable set of information on how to catch stray and feral cats. Connor kept himself quiet and crouched down low, to make himself a less threatening presence. He was confident he could catch it. He was less confident on what he planned on doing with it next.

Before he could figure out his next moves, he came face to face with the cat. It didn’t run, but it eyed Connor wearily and hissed in half-hearted warning. If Connor stood stock-still for even a second longer, the chances of the cat getting wise and bolting away to some inaccessible hidey-hole were good. No time for anything but action. No scanning. No pre-construction. And before the cat could do any pre-construction of its own, Connor bent down and scooped the animal up in one fluid motion.

He held the scruff of its neck firmly but gently, utilizing a tip he’d just downloaded. He supported its back-end in the crook of his elbow. Though the cat stood absolutely no chance of getting away, it squirmed, hissed, spat, and swatted as if did. Claws came out immediately, furiously scratching in vain at Connor’s wrists and arms.

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with” Connor spoke softly, unflinching as the attacks continued.

Ugly, low growls came from deep in the cat’s throat in response. And now what? Panic bristled uncomfortably at his core.

“ _Assess the cat’s condition”_ Connor assigned himself the new objective, assuaging the uncertainty.

With the cat unhappily secured in his arms, he allowed himself a few seconds to do a fairly thorough analysis.

Elevated heart rate, of course. Adult— maybe 6 or 7 years old. Female. Not chipped. Underweight. Smaller and leaner than an adequately developed, well-fed domestic feline. Too cold for optimum comfort and bodily functioning. Its thick, matted fur was damp, only making matters worse for the poor thing.

Judging from minor internal cues, it looked as though the cat had given birth about a year or so earlier. Connor frowned at the thought of this cat’s offspring. It wasn’t likely they’d all survived. But wasn’t that the way of the world? The unfortunate effects of nature’s cruelty? In any case, he didn’t detect any signs of other cats nearby. If any kittens _had_ survived, they were already adults and already off on their own.

Her outward appearance up-close was grim and weathered. The tip of her right ear had been torn or bitten off in some street fight. At least it was healed properly. Scars and scrapes of varying age were visible along her whole body; her fur had grown back patchy and sparse in these places. Most unsettling to Connor was her left eye. It was irritated, weepy, and almost closed shut. Connor figured there was roughly a 65% chance she’d have permanent damage to her sight in that eye. He frowned.

Connor’s thumb slowly massaged between the cat’s sharp scapulae, trying to relax himself as well as the cat. Its heart rate reduced slightly, soon after he began his ministrations, though it continued to hiss and wriggle. One step at a time.

After Connor was reassured by the cat’s steadying heart rate, Hank’s irritated voice registered in his audio processors once again. Parked about 5 yards from where Connor stood clutching the cat, Hank was still in the car— there was no way in hell he’d spend more time out in this nasty weather than he absolutely had to.

Based on the vague curses and complaints Connor could hear, it was clear Hank still hadn’t seen what Connor had gotten out of the car for. Rare giddy excitement rose in Connor. Regardless of if he’d be mad or not—and of course he’d be mad— Hank was in for a surprise. Connor was irrationally fond of the dumb look that came across Hank’s face on the few occasions he was properly stunned.

Angling his body so his back faced the Lieutenant, Connor lifted his sweater and shoved the cat inside unceremoniously. From the outside of his sweater, Connor wrapped his arms around the cat’s form. A vicious renewed strike on his synthetic skin began. But the cat’s body temperature quickly entered a more acceptable range as the android slightly adjusted his surface thermal settings. That would do nicely.

“Isn’t that better?” Connor asked as he turned back to the car. “Silly cat” he editorialized, shaking his head a little.

Hank was eyeing his partner suspiciously from the rearview mirror, surely wondering what was bulging under Connor’s shirt.

“Don’t be mad” Connor warned as he slid into the passenger seat and shut the door behind him.

This elicited a heavy, resigned sigh from Hank, but he didn’t speak.

Sensing the change in location, the cat decided that it was time to pause her struggle and pop her head up through the neck of Connor’s sweater. She looked around wildly, no doubt searching for an escape route.

“Shit!” Hank jumped in his seat, pressing his back against the driver-side door to get away. The Lieutenant’s face was a strange cocktail of horror and exasperation. He didn’t have to vocalize whatever question was on his tongue next.

“It’s a cat, Hank” Connor deadpanned after a beat. He couldn’t resist smirking a little. The cat continued to squirm, but it made no move to extricate itself from Connor’s shirt. That was a good sign, right?

“I can see that, _Connor_ ” Hank replied slowly as he divided his scowls between the android and the cat.

“But…do you want to tell me _why_ the cat is in _our_ car?” Hank continued. Beyond any anger, all he broadcast was pure confusion.

The phraseology wasn’t lost on Connor. “ _Our car.”_ But he could diagnose and reconcile the quick burst of lightness he felt at another time. First and foremost, Connor had to deal with an irritable cat in his arms and an equally irritable human at arm’s-length.

“I saw her. In the alley” Connor began. “It’s just so cold out there, and…”

Connor’s LED went a steady yellow as he trailed off. He knew he felt a sudden urge to save the animal. To take its health and wellbeing into his own hands, at least for a while. But he couldn’t explain _why_ he felt those things. The hollow, maddening feeling of coming up short in analyzing his own motivations wasn’t unfamiliar to Connor these days. It was a side effect of his deviancy. It was a side effect of free-will and irrationality and whatever else Markus began fighting for 5 months earlier. But, just because uncertainty came with the territory didn’t mean Connor had gotten comfortable with it.

What Connor _especially_ didn’t understand, though, was why he still struggled with it all in the first place. The most serious, philosophically fraught choices he’d ever made, he’d made months ago! Granting consciousness to thousands of androids in the Cyberlife subbasement was the closest he’d ever get to playing god. And his staunch refusal to take away the lives of the Tracis, and the Chloe, and Markus— those had all been formative steps on his path to deviancy. He’d already grappled with the biggest moral dilemmas known to mankind— and android-kind.Shouldn’t he have been old hat at irrationality? Shouldn’t he have been able to “go with the flow” as Hank would put it? Why was he so stumped over picking a cat up off the street? And why did being stumped _bother_ him so much?

“You’re thinking like a deviant hunter again, aren’t you?” Hank’s gruff yet softened voice brought Connor back.

Connor grimaced, knowing it was all the answer Hank needed.

“You can’t try to find a fucking motive for everything you do. Save that shit for solving crime. And you gotta stop thinking of yourself as a ‘ _deviant’_ or whatever. That’s got a whole lot of negative connotations. Your brain’ll be more fucked up than mine if you keep doing that.”

Hank’s brow furrowed even further as he thought about what to say next. He didn’t pause for long; apparently he was ready for this one.

“You’re just thinking like a _person_ …which is to say, you’re not thinking at all. It can bug you when you don’t know why in the hell you’re acting like an idiot, but you gotta keep it on the back-burner or else you’re gonna fry yourself.”

Connor blinked, processing Hank’s profanity-riddled pep-talk. Hank was a man of few words— a man of many grumbles, and curses, and complaints, maybe— but few words. And when he _was_ chatty, it wasn’t like he relished speaking at length about the implications of android citizenship and free-will. Connor knew he was supportive and understanding. That’s all that mattered to him.

Hank’s words didn’t set him totally at ease, but Connor could agree that he needed to put the bigger questions on the proverbial back-burner, wherever that was. He turned in his seat to fully face Hank and nodded in thanks.

Connor had forgotten there was an angry cat sandwiched between his chest and his sweater, but he was reminded when a paw fitted with particularly sharp claws rose from inside the article. She swiped at his bottom lip with a surprising amount of force. It was enough to cause a thin scratch to appear before the resilient synthetic skin quickly patched itself up.

Hank sniggered a bit, then eyed the cat with suspicion once more.

“Okay. Now that I’m done being fuckin’ Plato, what, exactly, do you intend to do with this thing? Because it can’t come home with us.” Hank’s voice was firm.

“I didn’t think that far until now, but I think she should be spayed. She’s already had at least one litter.”

“Alright, Bob Barker” Hank grumbled under his breath.

Connor put his search query for whoever that was on his back-burner, just as Hank had advised.

“And while we’re at it, I think I’d like to get her a general checkup by a vet. Based on my research, Feline Immunodeficiency Virus seems to be quite common.”

“Then what?”

“Find her a home, I guess…If you’re sure you don’t want her staying with us.” Connor replied with the hint of a frown. Maybe he extended his lower lip just a bit, face testing out a small pout. Maybe it was intentional.

“I’m sure.” Hank stood firm. His eyes raked over Connor’s face, but his jaw was set in determination.

“Hypothetically speaking, what would be your reasoning for not letting her come stay with us?” Connor pushed, not knowing or not caring when it was time to quit. Old habits died hard, apparently.

“Well first of fuckin’ all, she’s not a house guest. She wouldn’t be ‘ _staying with us’,_ and don’t pretend otherwise. If you got that cat inside, you and I both know she would never leave.”

“Second, Sumo could hurt her.” It was a weak reason, and both of them knew that. Huge and clumsy as he was, Sumo was deeply reverent to even the tiniest, most agitated lap dog. Hank and Connor had been witness to this plenty of times when they took him to the dog park.

Connor raised a brow, unconvinced.

“Okay, fine…We don’t know if she’d hurt Sumo. Who knows what diseases that thing is hosting?” Hank paused, opened his mouth and then closed it again.

He focused back on the cat, who had been in constant motion the whole time. It was slowing down, at least. Connor had started scratching the top of her head gingerly. His sweater was looking worse for wear, stretched in some spots and shredded in others. After a moment, Hank returned to the debate.

“She’s gotta have fleas, right? Christ, if she has fleas—I just know she has fleas. We’re burning that sweater and you’re gonna get a chemical bath. Sumo’s had fleas before and it's not fucking fun” Hank argued, his tone a mix between incredulous and annoyed.

Connor realized this was a valid point. He scanned the cat once more, now with something specific to search for. Surprisingly, it had no fleas. Maybe the harsh cold of that Winter and early Spring had neutralized any flea threats. Under the fur on her back, though, Connor spotted patches of little black specs he quickly identified as flea dirt. She’d had fleas maybe sometime in the Fall, but they were all gone now. Connor had a suspicion that the difference wouldn’t matter to Hank, so he kept his reply simple.

“She’s free of fleas, actually.”

“Huh” Hank grunted. He was satisfied enough, Connor figured.

“I can take her to the vet and pay for any treatment she needs. I’ll find a no-kill shelter.”

“Good plan” was Hank’s short reply.

The Lieutenant’s eyes were still fixed on the cat still peeking up from Connor’s shirt. In turn, she analyzed his face, clearly doing her own calculations on the success rates of fight and flight. Indecisive, she hissed again.

“Or maybe Jericho could use a mascot…” Connor mused, sounding unconvinced at his own suggestion.

His lips turned back down into a minuscule frown. He didn’t realize he’d emoted until 2 seconds after the fact. He didn’t like the idea of saying goodbye to the angry cat he’d known for all of 5 minutes. But he knew he had to. Hank had been so hospitable, so welcoming. If Hank didn’t want the cat around himself or his dog, Connor respected it. The small frown with a mind of its own continued regardless.

Since neither human nor android were ones for grand displays, they’d both grown fluent in each other’s subtle emotional tells— for better or for worse. Thus, Connor wasn’t too surprised when Hank steered the subject away from homing the cat.

“You can get her eye fixed, right? That’s gotta be a priority…thing’s ugly” Hank proposed, making a face of disgust as he took a closer look at the cat.

Concrete next steps were things Connor could handle with ease; he was grounded again.

“Hopefully. She has some eye inflammation…I’m willing to bet she has some corneal damage under there. That, or she has conjunctivitis.”

Connor sighed. He hoped it wasn’t a side effect of something more serious, like Feline Leukemia.

“Huh. Okay. Well, that’s easy enough to deal with. Can you make her a vet appointment? Or have you already done it with your—” Hank tapped his own temple, where an LED would be if he were an android.

“I haven’t” Connor answered, thinking of the new cellphone nestled in his back pocket. There was no hope of reaching it with the live bomb he was coddling.

But Connor didn’t like to make calls, write emails, or text with the supercomputer in his head anymore. Another quirk he’d developed in deviancy, it seemed. Too much going on up there just didn’t feel right. Lately, he spent most of his time with his own notifications turned off. The fairly simple smartphone he bought a month earlier told him what he needed to know. And it was an indulgent pleasure to ignore the device when he wanted to focus on other things—things like his next steps.

Step 1 was to remove the cat from his person and place her in a more secure spot. Connor remembered a fairly large, empty cardboard box that took up most of Hank’s trunk. It had been there for as long as Connor knew his partner. It would do.

Step 2 was to make it more comfortable for the cat. A ratty but (mostly) clean towel was partially obscured under the driver’s seat. That would do, too.

“Would you get that box from your trunk?” Connor settled on his plan just a millisecond or so after after his last answer. At least deviancy hadn’t reduced his processing speed.

“I’m gonna freeze for this goddamn cat” Hank muttered. He unbuckled hastily and got out of the car, despite his complaints.

“That’s Hank, by the way. He’ll warm up to you” Connor explained to the cat.

Connor wasn’t so sure Hank _would,_ though. Not in the short time they had left with this cat. He didn’t frown anymore, but still felt the stupid ache. What had he expected? Of course the cat wouldn't be going back home with them. Demanding the cat stay would be…overstepping.

Hank made his welcome clear to Connor— as if there wasn’t even a question. Either way, Connor still harbored questions. Was it his right to call Hank’s home his? He could vaguely identify what he was feeling as self-doubt, but he had no clue how to fix it, or if he even should. Maybe self-doubt was some ancient self-defense mechanism bestowed upon any poor fool who had the gall to develop higher thought.

“Connor. Back-burner.” Hank’s voice was sharp but not unkind as he bounced back to his seat. “Put your cat in the damn box.”

Grounded again.

“Right. Can you put that towel in there? And hold the box open for me, please?” Connor was back in quick action.

“I don’t want to get any closer to her. What if she scratches me?” Hank argued, even though he was already bundling up the threadbare cloth into the bottom of the box.

Connor didn’t try to hide his smirk as he lifted up his shirt once again to free the cat.

“I can’t make any guarantees, Hank. How many times have you been stabbed, by the way?”

Hank didn’t have time to roll his eyes before Connor swiftly lowered the cat down. She began a yowl so low and angry, Connor worried for a moment it would truly frighten Hank.

With the box closed (and a few holes popped neatly in the top by Connor’s index finger) both Hank and Connor sighed.

“We’re going to be late” Hank said grimly as he resumed the drive.

Only then did it dawn on Connor that they were on their way to work. Captain Fowler might actually have a medical emergency if his android detective waltzed in with this grenade of a cat. Based on his personality, the man might not even like docile puppies, let alone the thing growling from inside an old box.

“I— I’m so sorry, I wasn’t even thinking. Please pull over again and let me out here. I’ll go ahead and take her to the nearest vet. I’ll just call in sick.”

The nearest animal care facility was a brisk 20 minute walk in the other direction, Connor calculated. That was doable.

“ _Sick?”_ Hank laughed, loud and sharp enough to agitate the packaged cat even further.

“Good point. I’ll take PTO.”

Connor wondered if he even was allowed personal time off, given that his personhood was still such a nascent thing. It didn’t matter. He’d deal with the consequences.

The android realized the car was still moving.

“Why aren’t you pulling over, Hank?”

“Because we’re going to work, cat and all. Fowler can suck it.”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

They both were familiar enough with Hank’s disciplinary file; Connor didn’t have to quantify his sentence with an “ _again.”_

“That’s why I’m blaming it on you, dumb-ass.” Hank replied, chortling indignantly. “My crazy fuckin’ deviant went batshit again and he wouldn’t have it any other way”

“But—”

“Jeff’ll live. If I can deck an FBI agent, you can do anything you want.”

Connor wasn’t so sure about the false equivalency, but he kept his mouth shut. He could sense Hank wasn’t done talking.

“Plus, you saved the world.”

“I didn’t save the—”

“Well, you saved _my_ world” He interrupted, rather fiercely.

Hank nearly choked on his own tongue at that one, Connor could tell. He didn’t have to use any thermal sensors to know heat was rapidly creeping up the Lieutenant’s neck. The grown man, in spite of all his brash honesty, didn’t like voicing his own feelings. Connor had to look out the window again as he stifled a smile. He was heartened.

“You ended the revolution, Connor. You sure as shit saved Fowler’s world. The whole DPD, really…” Hank modified “can you imagine how much paper work we’d all be doing if you didn’t do what you did?”

He had a point there.

“Why are we chewing our cheeks anyway? Jesus. All this drama over a _cat_? I’m not letting you or her go out in this cold again. We’ll take off early to get her to the vet if we have to. End of.”

There. _Now_ Hank was done. But Connor found he didn’t have any more protests. They both fell into silence, listening to the cat slowly settle down.

***

Hank and Connor’s joint appeal to the bullpen about a free, _sort of_ cute cat was fruitless. The silence remained even when Connor assured everyone he’d cover the vet bills.

Still, a handful of coworkers had lined up along the glass of the holding cell to get a closer look at the animal. The cat was huddled at the far corner of the concrete room, poised tightly under the bench that jutted out from the wall. It was watching the members of the DPD with as much suspicion and distaste as any grumpy arrestee would.

Connor couldn’t draw himself away, even when everybody else had milled back to their desks. Everybody _except_ Detective Reed, who remained a safe distance from Connor’s side. He was at his side all the same, though. Connor and Detective Reed’s professional relationship had been repaired a little in the months following the revolution; they comfortably straddled the line between curt and cordial. Meanwhile, Hank’s attitude remained squarely in the Mostly-Hostile Zone. At the very least, it hadn’t come to blows.

Reed didn’t _quite_ apologize to Connor for what went down in the evidence room that night. Connor would have been loath to explicitly accept a pure apology, though, so it was all the same. They both agreed things were confusing. Connor figured _he_ had changed so much, _Hank_ had changed so much— why couldn’t Reed change a little?

Plus, if training a gun on somebody was all it took to irreparably doom a friendship, Connor would be _very_ lonely.

Regardless, Connor was considerably shocked when Reed approached him that morning, slightly sheepish. He wanted a closer look at the cat, and he obviously had something to say.

“Everybody only ever wants kittens, and the shelters are full of adults as it is,” Reed began abruptly after a minute of awkward silence “I seriously would take her, but my cat hates other animals, and he has FIV. Chances of transmission are, uh, low…But I would hate to take any chances with your cat.”

“She’s not my cat” Connor replied softly, matching Reed’s regretful tone. “Sorry— I don’t mean to sound so negative…Thank you, Detective Reed.”

“No problem.”

Detective Reed went back to the bullpen. Connor expected that was the last of his interactions with Reed for the day, but he returned a few minutes later with a little ceramic saucer full of water balanced in one hand, and a flimsy paper plate of wet food in the other.

“She’s probably hungry. And thirsty” was all Reed had to say.

Connor surveyed his colleague with a confused look. Reed rolled his eyes, exasperated then.

“There are lots of strays outside my gym, okay? I keep the saucer and some food in my bag.” His voice was low and defensive, like he was justifying a murder.

Sensing he’d be pushing his luck if he replied to that, Connor simply bowed his head a little as he accepted the food and water.

“Anderson’s not letting you keep her?” Reed asked before Connor could venture back into the holding cell.

“You make it sound like he’s a villain, Detective. We decided _together_ it wouldn’t be a good fit with the dog.” Now _Connor_ was the defensive one.

At this, Reed rolled his eyes again and returned to his desk for good. Connor cautiously entered the cell with the offerings.

Despite Hank promising he’d be blaming Connor for the cat situation, the Lieutenant strolled into Fowler’s office confidently right after they’d gotten to work. Connor didn’t even have time to protest. So, he’d set the cat’s box down next to his desk and waited. Fewer than five minutes had passed and Hank returned, no sign of his tail between his legs.

“We’re good” Hank stated simply, looking smug when Connor fixed him with a slightly confused expression.

Maybe Fowler did have a little bit of a soft spot somewhere. Or maybe Hank had reminded the Officer how much of an asset Connor was to the DPD. Connor was too focused on the cat to care which it was. They’d settled on putting the cat in the glass-faced holding cell soon after, and Connor had been alternating between his work and the cell ever since, up until his interaction with Gavin. Once the food and water were set out, though, Connor begrudgingly decided the cat would feel better unwatched and returned to his desk and to Hank. Finally, he tried to get started on the work in front of him.

Lack of focus was not something Connor dealt with often. It was usually easy to pick a line of action and stick with it. But he spent that day wrestling and wrangling his unruly attention, worrying about the cat, about its mental state, about its health, about where she would be by nighttime…His daily tasks were going by the wayside. He wasn’t being _productive._

After the initial struggle, Connor kept himself mostly disciplined, making only a handful more trips to peek at the cat. It had nibbled on the food and its heart rate had stabilized. The few other distractions he allowed himself that workday were calling to make a vet appointment, and browsing local shelters at his terminal. Most of them were packed with strays and unwanted pets, wholly unable to take more animals. And there was that damn worry again.

If Hank could sense Connor’s growing unrest and unease, he didn’t let on. Connor kept fidgeting through the worry like a champ until it was time to round the cat back up and take it to the vet. When Connor began gathering his things, Hank did too.

“Hank, I can call a taxi. You’ve already given up too much of your day for me. You don’t have to take me to the veterinarian.”

“You think I’m not going to snag an opportunity to take off early, too?” Hank looked at Connor as if he was crazy. “Besides, I— uh. I want to be there for you.”

Heartened by Hank twice in a day, Connor marveled.

***

“May I ask you a personal question, Detective?” Hank asked in his best Connor impression— he cocked his head for good measure.

Connor’s brow furrowed at that, but he was secretly impressed at how well Hank replicated his tone and mannerism even as he was focused on the road. Connor nodded.

“Is Kamski some big animal lover or something? Did he program all of you to like cats and dogs and…pigeons?” Hank shivered, clearly thinking of Rupert’s apartment-turned-aviary.

Connor didn’t bother reminding Hank that Elijah Kamski played no real role in the most intricate parts of his programming. It was a fair question, either way. Connor himself had often considered where his programming ended and where deviancy began. Was there rhyme or reason behind the small but growing list of things he liked? Or was it all just as random as human interest? Connor was beginning to think the latter, and that comforted him; he was confident he wasn’t simulating these feelings.

“Not that I’m aware of. I think liking animals is part of my…personality, as it were. As arbitrary as human likes and dislikes, maybe. And it doesn’t hurt that Sumo is such a good dog— he sets a positive precedent.”

Hank considered this for a moment and nodded in understanding. From his spot in the passenger seat, Connor could detect what seemed to be a small, warm smile on Hank’s face. The same smile Hank gave him at their dawn meeting at Chicken Feed. If Connor was literally keeping a list of his likes, that smile would be at the very top.

“Although,” Connor began, a little humor and sarcasm leaking into his steady voice, “Mr. Kamski likes to hear himself talk. Given the opportunity, I’m certain he would wax poetic about anything.”

“Oh, I saw the bastard. He was waxing _everything”_ Hank mumbled, chuckling to himself.

Connor couldn’t help but smirk in unison with his partner.

The receptionist was less than thrilled to see the cat arrive in a ratty cardboard box. All Connor could do was shrug apologetically before he signed in for the appointment. By the time Connor and Hank were called back from the waiting area to an exam room, the cat had taken up its gravely, frightening growl again. And thanks to the cat’s renewed feistiness, the vet had to resort to donning oven-mitt-like gloves that went all the way up to her elbows just to be able to touch the animal. It didn’t take long for her to determine sedating the cat a little would be the only way to proceed uninjured.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder alone in the exam room, Connor and Hank listened as distant growls died down gradually.

“I suppose I need to find a shelter now and make arrangements to drop her off” Connor said as he retrieved his phone from his pocket, trying his best to prevent any emotion from leaking through in his tone.

Connor felt the android equivalent of a pit in his stomach— a phantom obstruction in his Thirium pump, maybe. Connor was reminded of Hank’s words that morning: _“all this drama over a cat?”_ Hank was right; it didn’t make sense…but acknowledging the senselessness of his emotions was no comfort.

“ _Goddamnit_ ” Hank said, mostly to himself. His shoulders slumped as if he’d just lost some internal battle.

“There’s…no need. She’s coming home with us.”

Before Connor could stop himself, he turned and dove at Hank, pulling him into a quick, tight hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will probably be a few chapters to this.
> 
> (also, i just gotta say: it seems like a lot of straight women fetishize fictional M/M relationships, and i find that super gross. i'm a simple lesbian who likes the dynamics between hank & connor, so rest assured, you will not catch me dead calling anybody a "soft boy uwu", "smol bean" etc. god bless.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I proofread this a number of times (and only proofread drunk once or twice!) but maybe there are still some typos. I'll fix them if I catch any more.

Hank watched Sumo bound up to Connor, intensely interested in the proper cat carrier they’d been given on loan from the vet. His wet nose was going batshit, his tail was more like a propellor, and his tongue lolled happily out of his mouth. Traitor.

The Lieutenant would be lying if he said it all happened so fast— the trajectory of his thoughts throughout the day were slow and deliberate and predictable. Like tortoises fucking. He knew full well where he was planning on ending up. He had plenty of time to change his mind. He just…didn’t want to.

Hank was sure they’d be keeping the cat by the time he incredulously watched Reed procure a can of cat food from his gym bag. Thoughtful, caring _Reed_? Hank idly glanced around the rest of the bullpen, to see if any of the pigs were taking flight. He turned back to his terminal, shrugging off the oddities of the day. A few moments later, a scowling Reed approached, interrupting his thin focus again.

“Hey, asshole.”

“Yes, my love?” Hank leaned back in his chair and let his face melt into that lazy, slightly sardonic smile he’d had a lifetime to perfect.

“You better be keeping that cat.”

Hank let out a long sigh as Reed watched with near-murderous eyes. Who would’ve guessed _this_ was the thing to make the little live wire snap? The Lieutenant leveled Reed with his best Scrutinous-Detective look, just to get under his skin a little, before he finally replied.

“Yeah, I’m keeping the fuckin’ cat…Even though I don’t see how any of this is your damn business.”

The murder left Reed’s eyes, although the haughty scowl remained. Hank wondered briefly if his face was stuck like that. Before Hank could ask, Reed gave him a short nod and turned back to his desk.

_Jesus H._

In all honesty, Hank made the decision that the cat was coming home with them about 10 minutes after Connor caught the damn thing. The rest of the day was simply a battle in vain between himself and his soft side. Gun to his head, he _might_ just admit that seeing Connor’s Resting Robot Face melt into disbelieving awe in the exam room was well worth whatever headaches awaited him. Though, he probably wouldn’t admit Connor’s quick, awkward hug was worth it too. A man has his limits.

The cat was mostly fine; she’d been prescribed eyedrops and antibiotics that Hank knew would be a true nightmare to administer. Even with the medication, the vet couldn’t promise it’d ever heal fully. Connor’s tense aura was palpable as the vet read down the long list of what was wrong with the cat. Malnourished, dirty, weak. Luckily, almost all of the cat’s ills could be solved with some TLC— Connor would sure as fuck provide that for the pissed off little gremlin.

With a treatment plan in place, and an appointment for the ol’ ovary snip scheduled, the aides finally offered to bathe her, for an extra fee. Hank was shocked, and even a little angry when Connor declined.

“I would like to give her a bath myself. It might prove to be a bonding opportunity” Connor explained after Hank let out a sharp, indignant huff.

At least the cat was still high out of her mind, half-asleep in the crate by the time they got home.

They made a stop at the pet store before they returned; Hank waited in the car while Connor stocked up on all the essentials. Well— he stocked up on all the essentials _plus_ a whole fucking cornucopia of accessories and toys and treats that were absolutely _not_ essentials. Hank didn’t even want to think about how much Connor spent on this cat who, up until then, was perfectly content eating from dumpsters.

"Come on, lemme take you out” Hank told Sumo, hooking his fingers around the dog’s collar and steering him away from the crate “I gotta explain to you what a cat is, you poor bastard.”

“I’m going to go start her bath” Connor said, flatly and mostly to himself, as he wandered off down the hall and to the bathroom.

Once Sumo was taken care of, Hank figured he might as well make himself useful for once. Connor had explained to him how sequestering her to just one room for the first few days would help ease her into this new lifestyle. Made sense to Hank. So he set his usual privacy considerations aside to set up the litter box, food, and water in Connor’s room.

Hank wasn’t about to go totally soft, but he had to admit to himself that having Connor around was pretty fucking nice. When he offered his spare room to Connor back in November, Hank was certain Connor would unequivocally reject him. Maybe Connor didn’t even want to be friends with his washed-up ass. But instead, Connor accepted the offer with gratitude, and promptly became one of the greatest friends Hank ever had. No fucking hyperbole. Not that he’d ever say any of that out loud.

As thanks for the whole saving-the-world thing, Hank insisted on furnishing the empty room out of his own pocket. In return, Connor insisted that he keep it simple. That was a doable compromise. The bedroom now held a desk, a mostly empty bookshelf, a dresser, a bedside table, and a Queen-sized bed. Connor told him a bed wasn’t necessary, but Hank refused to host his partner without giving him the most basic amenity of all: someplace to lay his head, even if he couldn’t actually sleep. It was called being a good host, for Christ’s sake.

After Hank set down the unnecessarily luxurious cat bed in the far corner of Connor’s room, he surveyed the surroundings in a rare moment of nosiness. The room felt almost as if it hadn’t been lived in at all. The closet doors and dresser drawers were closed, although Hank knew the android’s wardrobe was sparse. The bed was perfectly made— painfully so, not a wrinkle in sight. The only indications of Connor’s presence were his android upkeep essentials stacked neatly on the desk, and a half-dead potted plant on the windowsill. It’s not like Connor spent much time in the room, Hank reasoned. Most of Hank’s waking hours were spent with Connor in fairly close proximity—that didn’t leave much time to dirty up a bedroom.

Hank felt a deep twinge of guilt at that. _Surely_ this wasn’t an ideal existence for someone so special as Connor, right? Hank was hogging him. Taking advantage of his newness to the world to keep him there. Aside from a few visits to the Jericho gang each month, Connor’s world was work with Hank, and then home with Hank. And Hank knew he wasn’t enough. He’d been waiting 5 months for Connor to get wise and leave. Hank dreaded that moment, as selfish as the feeling was. Luckily, it hadn’t come yet.

Connor assured him countless times that Hank’s worries were unfounded. While he was gifted with subtle charm and a personable nature, Connor explained, he would never have any qualms with being painfully honest. He was there with Hank because he wanted to be. Self-doubt crept in, regardless. Hank sighed and silently chastised himself for intruding. Maybe it was time to go to the bathroom and check on Connor’s progress.

Connor had closed the bathroom door, probably to prevent any escape attempts. Hank chuckled to himself. The cat was high as balls. It was more like a rag doll than an animal. It wouldn’t be bolting any time soon, but Hank had to admire Connor’s thoroughness.

Hank gave the door a little warning knock and went in. It was humid and slightly steamy, thanks to the warm bath and poor ventilation. The pet shampoo made the steamy air smell slightly of sweet oats. Connor was hunched toward the bathtub, on his knees, while the cat lolled in 5 inches of sudsy bathwater. It was in the middle of a pitifully half-hearted, subdued growl when Hank entered.

“Good afternoon to you too, little fucker” Hank greeted the cat pleasantly, marveling at how fucking rat-like she looked when she was wet. He was suddenly very glad they didn’t take her to a shelter— she was goddamn euthanasia-bait.

Connor turned briefly to glance at Hank, who leaned against the door frame; it was only then that Hank noticed Connor had taken off his sweater. The stupid, perfect android was shirtless. His abused sweater hung heavily on the towel rack, slightly damp now.

Had Hank ever seen Connor shirtless before? No. No, he would have fucking remembered that, because— _fuck. Jesus._ Connor wasn’t _made,_ or _fabricated_ so much as he was fucking _sculpted._ Hank couldn’t seem to draw his eyes away from the arch of the android’s back as he leaned over the cat. _Why_ in the name of God was Connor’s back lightly freckled? How was that supposed to aid him in investigations? Hank’s eyes moved of their own volition down to the little dip in his lower back, where dark jeans met pale skin, where the slope of his perfect, round— _Stop._ _Snap out of it, Anderson._

Hank realized his face was slack as he pulled himself back. Thank _fuck_ Connor had turned back around, totally focused on gently working the dirt and grime from the cat’s coat.

Nope. Not today. Hank wasn’t even going to try and work out whatever the hell just came over him. Connor could handle the cat by himself, and Hank didn’t want the android to somehow sense the strange twist in his chest and do a full body scan. Hank wasn’t sure what Connor would find. He wasn’t gonna take that chance. _Nope. Nope. Nope._

“You seem to have this under control. I’ll…leave you be” Hank managed to mutter as he turned to retreat. “Holler if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Hank” Connor said distractedly as the door softly closed.

Hank let his legs carry him to the kitchen. The kitchen—the whole house, really— had changed considerably since Connor moved in. And, surprisingly, the good changes weren’t all Connor’s doing; Hank found himself motivated to pick up his shit when there was a living being with him other than Sumo.

In addition to cleaning, Hank began to actually _cook_ for himself again. Connor tried to cook a handful of times, but something in that supercomputer brain of his just couldn’t grasp the concept of seasoning. While Hank cooked, Connor had taken up baking.

Hank had once said in passing to Connor that cooking was an art, while baking was a science. The goofy fucking android clearly took it to heart, because he quickly became something of a kitchen scientist. Specifically, Connor became obsessed with making bread; he would excitedly extol its virtues to Hank at any given opportunity. There was something about the concept of yeast that really got Connor going. And of course he was fucking good at it— his ability to acutely analyze his surroundings meant that dough never found itself too warm or too cool. Yeast had never once been scalded in Hank’s household, Connor made damn sure of that. There was too much bread at any given time for one poor human and his monster-dog to safely consume, so Connor had taken to splitting his yeast rolls and sourdough loaves between a local homeless shelter and the precinct.

And Connor’s weird obsession with live cultures didn’t stop at bread. Around the new year, Connor discovered, of all things, _kombucha._ Hank knew Connor was likely to become a pretentious prick in his newfound deviancy, but _Jesus H._

On the kitchen counters, he’d amassed roughly a dozen gallon-sized mason jars, all full of tea and yeast and sugar in various states of fermentation. Hank tried to avoid looking at the monstrous jar of SCOBY discs that had become Connor’s pride and joy. The android had taken to affectionally calling the alien-looking thing “Mother”. Connor had also taken to bottling his finished product, and often brought them to the precinct as well. To Hank’s surprise, almost everybody loved it.

Hank would bet both his— well…Hank would bet a _lot_ on DPD Central Station having the healthiest damn guts of all the law enforcement officers in Michigan. Begrudgingly, Hank had grown accustomed to the taste, too. Without even having to ask, Connor kept a hearty stock of Hank’s favorite flavor. It bubbled like beer. It tasted _kind of_ like a sour. And it filled the hole of a ritualistic drink well enough.

All of Hank’s health had improved since Connor moved in, actually. In addition to cooking real meals for himself, and replacing a large chunk of his beer intake with fermented fucking tea, Connor came up with the brilliant suggestion that if Hank bought higher quality beer and liquor, he’d be a little more conservative when imbibing. Hank scoffed at first. But it worked, goddamn it. Connor did a shit job of hiding his smile when Hank poured himself just half a dram of 90 buck Scotch on ice. Or when he drank just one bottle of hipster artisan beer. Connor didn’t even _try_ to stifle his smile when Hank drank the home-brew kombucha.

Fortunately, Hank had been drinking a lot of the stuff— he got to see Connor smile a lot more than he used to.

_Wait. What the fuck?_

Hank huffed at his own thoughts. Sure, he was thrilled to have Connor as a friend and housemate and partner… But to gaze fondly at Mother SCOBY in her jar as he reflected on how much of a goddamn light Connor was? Wasn’t that too far? He was supposed to be forgetting about the artful subtleties of the android’s fucking lower back, not going soft again. _Fuck._

Hell, it was just that…Connor introduced him some kind of premium subscription to life he wasn’t aware existed before. How could he ignore that? Connor hadn’t singlehandedly saved his life, no. But he pulled him up from the brink of something dark, and stayed firmly by his side as Hank made a slog toward something bright.

Quickly realizing he was reaching his daily feelings limit, Hank swung open the fridge to retrieve a bottle of what— much to Connor’s chagrin—Hank called “‘booch”, and made his way to the television, hoping some basketball game or scandal on the news would catch his attention.

***

It was dark outside by the time Hank woke up. Damn, sleep was really good at sneaking up on him. Hank decided whatever weird surge of emotions he’d been feeling earlier had passed. All clear. Sumo snored softly in the corner, clearly already having forgotten about the new smells that assaulted his nose earlier.

Time to go check on Connor, Hank figured. After hoisting himself from the couch, Hank approached Connor’s closed bedroom door. He stilled as he heard Connor speaking in a low, calming voice.

“—your home now. I know you’re going to like it here. Just give it time.”

A pause, as if the goofy android expected a reply.

“I wonder if you’ll like Sumo. Surely you’ve seen a dog before, right?”

Another pause. Hank rolled his eyes.

“I hope you’ll be nice to Sumo. And Hank…and I hope you’ll be nice to me too, for that matter.”

Connor’s voice lowered even further until all Hank could hear was a rhythmic stream of unintelligible whispers. Hank was momentarily terrified, until he remembered that Connor spoke on the ride home about how soft whispering put some cats at ease. Christ, it was honestly sweet how hard he was trying.

Hank shifted his weight and the floor creaked. Hank could barely hear it himself, but he knew Connor would. Stupid old house.

“Hank? Would you like to come in? Just come in slowly.” Connor’s voice was still soft and calming.

Originally, Hank didn’t see Connor at all, until he almost tripped over him. Near the door, Connor laid perfectly flat on stomach, with his chin resting on the carpet. The android at least had a t-shirt on now— he looked freshly showered and he wore a thick pair of sweatpants. It was still so odd to see Connor looking so comfortable in leisure-wear. Hank was happy to see the goofy bastard getting a taste for comfort, though. He firmly believed that Connor deserved to get familiar with all little pleasures life had to offer.

He followed Connor’s line of sight across the room, over to Connor’s desk. The cat was eerily still under it, fur looking slightly brighter and fluffier. Her eyes widened and she wriggled even deeper against the wall as she watched Hank come in.

“I’m going to have to ask you to get down on the floor too.” Connor glanced up at Hank with an apologetic smile.

With a bit of a grumble, but without another actual word, Hank dropped to his knees and lowered himself onto his stomach next to Connor.

The cat still seemed to be slightly out of it, luckily. Aside from the gross eye, Hank had to admit that the cat looked kind of cute, in a gruff, rodent-like way. She looked exactly like the alley-cat she was. She looked like she had a whole lot of fight in her. She looked like she’d been living on murky rainwater and the marrow of discarded chicken wings. Hank could appreciate that. She hissed, baring her sharp teeth.

“Slow blinks, please, Hank” Connor advised. “It increases her trust in us.”

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes instead, Hank blinked slowly, following Connor’s lead. 6 months earlier, he would have started a bar-fight _dead sober_ if somebody suggested he’d be laying prostrate on the floor alongside an android partner-slash-roommate-slash-friend, trying to appease an unappeasable cat. He didn’t really mind it, though.

“How did bathing her go?” Hank spoke in a soft, low voice without being asked.

“It went well, considering. I administered her first dose of antibiotics. I doubt the next dose will be as easy.” Connor grimaced and turned his neck to face Hank, wide jaw and pale cheek now pressed against the carpet.

“Fuck, I want whatever they gave her. She still looks kinda zooted.”

“They gave her—relative to her size and weight—a fairly generous dose of benzodiazepines, Hank. _You_ might be perfectly happy to take that medication, but _I_ would not be.” Connor looked unimpressed and quite serious.

“Oh come _on_ , it was a joke. I can’t be addicted to two things at once. I have standards, you know” Hank replied.

“Very funny…Although, I wouldn’t call you an alcohol addict these days. You’ve made great strides on that front.”

Hank watched as Connor’s LED quickly flickered from cool blue to yellow, and back to blue again. Did he even want to know what went on up there?

“I’m proud of you.”

Hank felt the base of his neck go a little warm at the compliment. _Christ._

“Yeah, well…thanks.” Hank sighed.

Neither Connor nor Hank were watching the cat. Instead, they’d fallen into easy eye contact with one another.

“I—I wouldn’t be doing this well if it weren’t for you.” Hank finally admitted.

His stupid hangups about sharing his feelings could be cast aside for just a damn minute, for Connor’s sake. He deserved to hear it.

“Hank, I can sense you’re uncomfortable with this type of conversation, so I will stop. But let me just say: I would be deactivated— dead,” Connor corrected himself “without you…And while we’re on the subject of appreciation, thank you for the cat.”

 _Aw, fuck. Not gonna cry. Jesus H. Fuck._ The corners of his eyes prickled for a split second, but Hank bit down on his cheek, successfully fending off the sting. Close call.

Hank moved his head slowly back toward the cat, powering through the warm feeling in his chest. Had she moved closer? Or maybe some of the tension had left her coiled body? Connor turned his head back to the cat as well. In Hank’s periphery, he could see the android smiling softly at her. It was clear— Connor was already fucking enamored with the thing.

“What are you gonna name her?”

“I have not given that much thought, actually” Connor confessed, his LED now a steady yellow.

He blinked one or twice before he spoke again. “The most popular American girls’ name of 2038 was Mia, according to my search.”

Hank huffed quietly. “I told myself I wasn’t going to give any input on a name, but you don’t think that’s boring?”

More yellow.

“I think I agree…But Hank, why don’t you want to give input on a name?” Connor asked.

“You’ve never named a pet before— at least, as far as I know. It’s something everybody should do.”

“Alright” Connor reluctantly agreed before his LED spun and pulsed again. “The most popular American female cat’s name of 2038 was…also Mia. Later, Hank, I’d like to discuss human creativity with you.”

"Look—you don’t have to decide now. Maybe let her reveal her personality to you a little bit and go from there?”

Connor’s face relaxed as he thought.

“I’m interested in that idea…may I ask how you named Sumo?”

Hank waited for his chest to seize up with sadness. Waited for himself to get mad, or closed-off, or to simply ignore Connor. But it didn’t happen. The mostly forgotten memory of Cole and Sumo only made Hank feel warm…like his memory was a gift, rather than a curse. Why _shouldn’t_ he share this memory with someone else? Especially if that someone was Connor?

“Cole was about 4 when we got Sumo. It was Winter, and he wasn’t quite full grown yet. The snow was taller than him, but he loved to jump in…looked real funny doing it.”

Hank took a steadying breath before he continued.

“So, Cole said Sumo looked like a wrestler diving off the ropes—and the damn dog was even a fat-ass even back then—I just made some dumb joke about how he was more like a sumo wrestler. And it clicked. He’s been Sumo ever since.” 

The yellow continued for a few seconds. Hank couldn’t help but wonder again what was going on in Connor’s super-brain. He thought too much for his own good. Hank was about to remind him about putting shit on the back-burner just as Connor began to speak again.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Hank. I think that’s a good template. I will be observing her” Connor replied softly.

Hank couldn't exactly pinpoint how long he and Connor laid on the floor like oversized worms, slow blinking like maniacs at the poor cat. He wouldn’t be able to say with any certainty if he dozed off a bit next to Connor, chin nestled in the thick carpeting. And he’d outright deny any suggestions that his stupid heart let out a pathetic little sigh when Connor finally rose and suggested Hank go to bed.

_Jesus H._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't named the cat yet lmao.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor has a Come-to-Jesus moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry in advance for any stray typos that may have slipped past my radar.

By Monday morning, Connor was no closer to finding a name for the cat. He continued to observe her, but none of her actions were conducive to naming. She was obviously still scared and kept to herself in Connor’s room. But Sunday night, Hank and Connor made the joint decision to allow her free reign. Was was the worst she could do, being an underweight alley cat, still too suspicious to get within a 5 foot radius of her new owners?

When they opened Connor’s door wide— an invitation to roam— the cat chose to remain on the top tier of her new tower. Hank went out to buy the impressive cat tower for her on Saturday, and she took to it almost immediately. And he genuinely surprised Connor in the process. It was difficult to surprise an android of Connor’s caliber, but he found he didn’t mind the feeling of pleasant shock Hank’s gift lit in him. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt that soft, lighthearted amazement ever before. He treasured the discovery.

Sumo trotted into Connor’s room that evening, not a menacing bone in his huge dog-body. He zeroed in on the cat instantly. Connor could sense Sumo’s desire to let out a curious, probing bark, but something in that strange brain of his decided against it. The cat, on the other hand, rose from her resting position, arched her back, and raised her hackles. Not at all discouraged by the warning, Sumo took another few steps toward the tower, looking up expectantly.

In response, she let out an impressive hiss followed by one of her deepest growls yet. Sumo was out of the room, whimpering a little, before the growl was even finished. Satisfied, the cat settled back down as if nothing happened. From the living room, Sumo let out a startlingly human-like sigh, sounding almost disappointed.

“Christ, Connor…I think she just hurt my dog’s feelings” Hank had said, slightly slack jawed.

The rest of the weekend, the cat spent a large part of her time in Connor’s room, despite the open door. Though, Connor caught her slinking around the edges of the living room and kitchen a handful of times, investigating the space. He was sure that was a good sign, even if she didn’t stay out long.

Mostly, she’d been making her presence known when neither Connor nor Hank were around or awake.

On Saturday, Connor entered his room to find his potted plant upturned on the carpet, with distinct bite marks puncturing its shriveled leaves. _Massacred_ , he thought to himself, slightly horrified. She watched from her tower as Connor surveyed the damage. And late Sunday night, while Hank was asleep and while Connor was in stasis, she knocked a glass on the kitchen counter onto the floor, shattering it and startling Connor from his rest. Monday morning, an hour before Hank’s alarm was scheduled to go off, he awoke to the cat sitting on his chest, watching him. The moment the Lieutenant stirred, she swatted his cheek sharply before scrambling away, toppling Hank’s table lamp in the process. At least, that’s how Hank told the story. There was something in the human’s eyes that made Connor believe he wasn’t exaggerating.

“She was offended! Like _I’m_ the one who fucking crawled up on her and gave her the goddamn Kubrick Stare!” Hank ranted, pausing at intervals to take undignified gulps of coffee.

Connor sat at the kitchen table, still as a statue, while his partner paced in front of him; he suspected part of Hank’s annoyance was due to the fact he was awake earlier than he had to be, on a work day, no less. He had been allowing the Lieutenant get it out of his system.

“I don’t doubt that you were rudely awakened, Hank, but don’t you think you’re being slightly over dramatic?” Connor asked, now feeling a little defensive on the cat’s behalf after a few minutes of the complaints.

Hank paused his listless shuffling to glare at Connor, tightening his lips and raising a brow. Connor raised his hands in surrender and shrugged noncommittally.

“I’m not being dramatic” Hank snapped, and then softened his face “But I forgive her. She’s working it all out. Christ knows I’ve done worse to people who were only trying to help me.”

As if on cue, the cat slid leisurely into the kitchen, tail swishing back and forth slowly. She jumped smoothly up to the counter, pretending like she didn’t notice Hank or Connor.

“On a fucking victory lap” Hank mumbled, but there was no venom.

Connor’s state-of-the-art investigative programming even picked up a little fondness in Hank’s tone. He felt his lips twitch into a small smile— another involuntary face journey. Before he could think any more about his own face, or why Hank was so often the reason for his smiles, Connor watched the cat move to the fridge and leap on top of it. Probably enjoying the warmth and high vantage point, she began to softly purr, too quiet for the human ear to pick up. Her eyes slid closed.

“I’m sorry she assaulted you” Connor finally relented, letting only a little sarcasm color his tone.

“Well, just call me in case of an emergency. I don’t want her terrorizing you too.”

Connor’s heavy eye roll went undetected as Hank moved to the front door to slip on his coat and tie up his scuffed snow boots. That Monday was a rare instance of their work partnership being split up; Connor decided the cat was a good enough reason to use the time-off Captain Fowler had been begging him to take advantage of. Hank, on the other hand, had 3 years of bender and hangover-related absences to repent for.

Connor couldn’t exactly understand what he was feeling as he watched Hank follow his daily routine, getting ready to go to work without him. Identifying and isolating swells of emotion coming from his own code felt akin to a clumsy bear cub trying to catch a specific salmon from the dizzying abundance of a river in Spring. There was so much to catch, so much to hold onto and dig into— but without experience, it was all too overwhelming.

5 long seconds passed as Connor sifted through the strong currents of his emotion. He tentatively classified the emotion as _wistfulness._ Now—to figure out _why_ he was feeling wistful. That was always the hardest part. The answer ought to have been so clear, but it was as if the signal was scrambled at some point between his eyes and his… _brain? Heart?_

“Back-burner.” Hank’s gruff voice pulled Connor back, once again.

Connor hadn’t even realized Hank saw him spiraling. He nodded quickly, acknowledging his partner.

Keys jangled as they were collected from the coffee table and deposited into Hank’s pocket. With the noise came another pulse of unruly feeling, this time originating in his head and getting caught in his throat; Connor nearly told Hank “ _I’ll miss you”._ He stopped the urge just in time.

Connor was no seasoned expert when it came to nuanced social cues, but he knew Hank would likely balk at the statement. Connor _would_ miss Hank, though, on this rare occasion when their schedules didn’t align. Even if he’d only be gone for the short length of a shift. Even if he should not miss him as much as he would.

“Jesus, Connor. Are you in there?” Hank spoke again, now standing closer, in the middle of the living room. The android blinked twice, in quick succession.

“My apologizes” Connor spoke automatically, sounding a little stiff.

With much effort, he dragged himself back to the moment. “I believe that deviating opened the flood gates, so to speak. I don’t have a singular mission keeping me on track. I...seem to be falling prey to distraction.”

It wasn’t a lie, Connor reasoned with himself. Though he was not sure exactly why, omitting the specifics of his newest spiral felt like the right thing to do.

“It’s fine. You’re free-balling—I get it. Don’t apologize for zoning out" Hank rushed to answer, rather awkwardly.

"You looked kinda sick is all— and I know you’re still getting the hang of all _this_ ” he gestured weakly “—which is fine. I just don’t want you to go too deep in yourself and get stuck.”

Hank had obviously gotten quite skilled at reading Connor. This fact was neither good nor bad, but it still made Connor feel… _something._ Was it a cautious comfort he felt? Before he could dig deeper, he pushed it away to the back-burner, which was starting to get crowded.

“Thank you for understanding. I don’t want to get stuck either” Connor stood, offering a tight smile. “Have a good day at work. Please let me know if you need me to come in.”

“Just enjoy your fucking _peternity_ leave while it lasts” Hank chuckled to himself at the pun as he closed the front door behind him.

***

Being the expensive, advanced piece of technology Connor was, he had the ability to listen to audio in his own head, as it were. He could conjure up whatever he wanted to hear, whenever he wanted to hear it, and never had to let the sound leak out to the rest of the world. A closed feedback loop.

He _could_ do this when he listened to music, but he never did. Keeping all of that to himself—not allowing the music to make real sound the way it was designed to—felt terribly greedy to him. Besides, when Connor interfaced with Hank’s stereo system to play music, the sounds became exponentially richer. He could physically feel the sound waves around him. Lapping up against him gently sometimes, crashing against him at other times.

Connor would be the first to admit he was not one to _luxuriate._ But he allowed himself to float aimlessly when he listened to music, pulled and pushed by the waves in the air. As far as pastimes went, he liked it better than television or film. And it was the closest he’d ever gotten to true relaxation.

Hank adamantly refused to push his own personal tastes onto Connor, especially after the android admitted he didn’t _really_ like Knights of the Black Death. Hank insisted, for all his faults, he would never be a narcissist— he wasn’t going to impose his preferences on the _tabula rasa_ that was Connor under the guise of education.

 _"Fuck, I’m not gonna force you into a circle-jerk of the shit I like. If you wanna start listening to stuff, you need to find what you actually enjoy— and I am very fucking aware that I’m going to regret saying that. You’re gonna be the most pretentious bastard.”_ Hank had explained back in December.

Connor appreciated Hank’s staunch opposition to providing input while his preferences were still so malleable. But now that Connor was well into wading waist-deep through music, Hank was not shy about rolling his eyes half-exasperated, half-affectionally at what Connor came to enjoy.

 _“Yup. Pretentious bastard”_ Hank had delightedly confirmed as Connor dipped a toe into the foreign world of preference.

Originally, Connor found music with lyrics painfully overwhelming; he got deep into French post-punk coldwave, with minimal words and ambient sounds that he could ease himself into.

Through January and into February, Connor began to find he could handle more poetry, more verbalized emotion in his music. Kicking off from his cool synth-goth, he touched on Joy Division, which brought him to The Smiths, which plunged him into The Velvet Underground, which delivered him straight to Bowie.

Hank usually groaned at Connor’s tastes— with a special hostility reserved for The Smiths—but they could _at least_ agree on the Thin White Duke. The Lieutenant even swallowed a little pride to show Connor a photo of his lanky, 20 year old self dressed as Ziggy Stardust for Halloween. The android had loved it, almost too much, but Hank warned him never to speak of picture again.

Well into the avant-garde by March and April, Connor was becoming a particularly large fan of Björk; Hank swore up and down that he hated her. But Connor once caught him tapping his fingers to one of her frantic beats on the steering wheel when it was Connor’s day to pick the commute music. Maybe Connor had become a pretentious bastard like Hank predicted, but it was quite clear that Hank was a stubborn bastard. It felt like a match made in heaven.

Luckily, the pair could also wholeheartedly agree on jazz and blues. Nina Simone and Otis Redding had become nightly fixtures while Connor baked or worked on a new kombucha flavor, and while Hank watched soccer or basketball games on mute. That time spent with the Lieutenant was strangely sacred to Connor, in ways he couldn’t even begin to unravel.

On that Monday morning, as a little bit of sun finally began to melt some of the ice encasing Detroit, Connor busied himself in the kitchen, steeping sassafras root bark. Janis Joplin roughly crooned in the background—she was another one of those rare acts both Hank and Connor enjoyed. As he tried desperately to capture the flavor of root beer (a childhood favorite of Hank’s) for his kombucha, he was marginally calmed by the sound waves crashing against his back in a steady rhythm. He’d been working exhaustively on the root beer flavor for weeks now. He had all the elements there, all the spices and extracts in proper amounts. But the yeast ate up every last trace of sweetness and left him with foul test batches that even his brave guinea pig couldn’t stand.

As Connor weighed the option of infusing a simple syrup after fermentation, one of his personal alarms sounded, startling him out of his deep focus. It was time for the cat’s antibiotics and eye drops. He sighed heavily, wholly unnecessarily.

The process of finding the cat, catching her, and holding her down long enough to administer the medicine was not physically taxing, but was certainly draining on an emotional level. Hank had been there for support during the weekend, but Connor now faced the ordeal alone. He hated to see her so viscerally frightened as he tried to force pills down her throat and drops in her eye. He hated to feel her fluttering heartbeat as he held her down. He hated the way she ran when he got close. Fierce self-doubt tamped down his enthusiasm and determination.

Connor was just trying to help. He knew she couldn’t understand that, but it hurt all the same. At least when Connor gave Sumo his weekly hip supplement, he could wrap it up in a bit of cheese or peanut butter and the blindly trusting dog would be none the wiser.

It was becoming abundantly clear that the cat was too smart. She was ruled by suspicion and instinct and fear—it was how she’d survived so long on the streets. It was a small comfort, at least, that she seemed to enjoy the luxuries her new life afforded her. Unfortunately, she seemed to enjoy them best when Connor was nowhere nearby.

Swallowing his trepidation and guilt, Connor gathered up her afternoon dose and set off to find the cat. Shockingly, he found her lazily stretched out on the floor, right in front of the stereo. He hadn’t ever seen her so relaxed; she wasn’t even asleep. She was simply _lounging._ Like a true house cat would. Connor was even more shocked to find that his nearing footfalls didn’t scare her away. As he lowered himself to the floor to sit cross-legged beside her, she seemed to pay him no mind.

Connor turned his gaze toward the stereo, keeping the medicine behind his back and trying to act casual. Janis Joplin let out a delightfully scratchy cry, lamenting about regret and love and time. As the noise tickled his synthetic skin, Connor picked up the sound of a low purr. He looked back at her just as she began a languid stretch, spreading her toes out. After a brief lull in the volume, Janis returned with another soulful vocalization. And another, stronger purr followed.

“You’re not supposed to like music. There’s no reason you should enjoy these sounds. Your ears aren’t built for this” Connor found himself speaking aloud, as if the cat could understand him.

In response, she rolled back up to her four legs and bowed her head in a low stretch, still purring. She crossed the small space between herself and the android and rubbed her head against his knee. A scratchy meow came from the cat as she circled around him and leaned into his leg once again.

“Maybe I'm anthropomorphizing…but you seem to enjoy the music” Connor mused, still confused at the impossibility. He chanced reaching his hand out slowly, letting her sniff his fingers before he scratched her tiny head, right between her ears.

Purrs erupted in tandem with Connor’s scratches and with the dramatic chorus. His own pleasure sensors and electric synapses buzzed at the joy of this physical affection.

“I think I have to name you Janis Joplin.”

***

The back-burner was getting full. Logic would dictate that when the blissfully ignored spot at the back of Connor’s head began to overflow, it was time to sort through it all. Wouldn’t it? It would be like rifling through a stack of mail. Annoying, but it had to be done.

When Hank introduced him to the filing system on Friday, he never explained _when_ he should circle back to all the thoughts he pushed away. Maybe the answer was never. But that couldn’t be healthy, even for an android.

So, after a comparatively easy administration of Janis Joplin’s medicine, Connor decided to take a break from his brewing project to work through the backlog of thoughts and emotions. It wasn’t hard to sift through his memory and bring forth all his half-formed contemplations— he assumed the next part would be easy as well.

First up was the way Hank called his vehicle _their car._ He’d retroactively filed away the odd mix of satisfaction and…something else using his new system. In the same vein, he considered how Hank said Janis Joplin was coming _home_ _with them._

It was a matter of semantics, really. Hank couldn’t realistically be expected to say _“my house that I am letting you stay in indefinitely”_ every time they spoke of the residence. Connor knew that from the start. Knowing that, why did the feeling of excitement still persist? He set the question aside, hoping the answer would become clearer as he sorted through the rest of his back-burner.

Moving on, he began to reflect on his self-doubt, especially surrounding his place in the Lieutenant’s home. Connor knew he liked living with Hank. And Hank displayed no signs of deception when he assured Connor he would always be welcome. Hank seemed to enjoy his presence, in fact. Thus, he easily concluded his self-doubt was irrational. Despite the relief of a definitive answer, the conclusion didn’t help much at all. How could he reconcile the feelings of contentment and excitement with his shy hesitancy to call Hank’s home his own? It made no sense. Once again, he brushed the confusion away, hoping it would be gone by the time he was finished.

Next, he considered the spiral he’d been thrown into when he tried to figure out why he’d been motivated to pick up Janis Joplin in the first place. Markus could probably address these worries—maybe Connor could speak with him. But Markus had far more important matters to attend to, and Connor knew what he would say anyway— “ _desire can’t always be explained, why waste your time rationalizing the irrational when you could just live?”,_ and then he’d say, “ _desire isn’t a software instability, it’s just what happens when you have free will…embrace it.”_

“Easier said than done” Connor muttered, promptly ending his imaginary discourse with Markus.

Maybe that particular question would have to go unanswerable. Not terribly satisfying, but he could easily adjust to a new paradigm. He had the power to accept new truths—annoying, unpleasant, nonsensical truths. It was doable.

Only slightly discouraged by the lack of progress, Connor soldiered on through the contents of the back-burner. On Friday night, Connor hastily filed away the questions that arose when he detected a warm, half-pleasant, half-terrifying phantom ache deep in his chest at the feel of Hank next to him on the carpet. And Saturday morning, he willfully ignored the cause of his startlingly heady joy when Hank woke up early and in a good mood. He had also dismissed the strange, airy softness that underlined his surprise when Hank came home with Janis Joplin’s cat tower.

And then Saturday afternoon— when Connor caught a glimpse of a shirtless, post-shower Hank going from the bathroom to his bedroom…when he dwelled on the memory of the bare, tattooed skin for hours after…when he assured himself he was simply assessing the Lieutenant’s slight weight-loss and subtle new muscle-mass…And Sunday night— the odd _hunger_ he felt in his room as he listened to Hank’s steady breathing across the hall.

That morning— the senseless, needy wistfulness as he watched Hank leave.

He soon discovered that there was more, dating back _months._ Shoved carelessly away, hidden from himself before he could even acknowledge it was there. A pattern had obviously been forming, since the very beginning. And the common thread linking all those disregarded, willfully ignored emotions was undoubtedly _Hank._

Oh. _Oh._

He wasn’t a child, and he was far from innocent or oblivious. The answer was painfully clear— really, the answer had been painfully clear all along. He had just been desperately ignoring it, happily pretending that the truth didn’t exist. Lying to himself. What else could he do?

It seemed as if deviancy was hell-bent on ruining the life he’d carved out for himself. His feelings were inconvenient. As Hank might put it, his feelings fucking hurt.

Connor knew that, as a deviant, he was technically susceptible to the whole gamut of human emotions, including attraction and attachment. He had the software, so to speak. And he, for some reason, was equipped with all the necessary hardware, too. He simply didn’t expect he would ever want to use it— need to use it. Connor assumed these things didn’t align with his original programming or his new personality. He believed he was above such base desire. He _wished_ he was above it.

But now what?

Harboring a desire and acting on it were markedly different things, Connor reminded himself sternly. But next, he realized he already _had_ been acting on his desire.

Every time he made Hank's favorite bread, every failed attempt at humor he made only to get a laugh out of Hank, every new kombucha test batch inspired by Hank's favorite things, every time he brazenly savored visits to the dog park with Hank and Sumo, every time he allowed Hank's crooked grin to wrap him a wholly unexamined warmth and exhilaration. Every night that he pretended Nina Simone's sound waves were a cocoon, binding him up safely with Hank. _That_ was his desire, made concrete. All of this was a product of his love, all packaged up and delivered into the physical world, nonrefundable.

And even then, Connor knew he would not stop giving what he could to Hank. It felt too right to revoke. It felt good to give, no matter how flawed his motivation was.

He was selfish, Connor suddenly realized, horrified. He'd been basking in something he'd never even been given permission to enjoy. His acts of care were corrupted by the virus of his hunger. Hank would be upset and repulsed if he knew what had been breeding unchecked within Connor, there was no doubt. Hank was a good friend to Connor, and all Connor had done was take advantage of the Lieutenant's kindness and twist it. 

Hank did not feel the same way. Of course he didn't. He couldn't be expected to. And worst of all, Connor had the _gall_ to feel sorry he'd never be loved back in the same way he loved. There was no question of what he was feeling now; it was pure shame. 

Amongst the settling rubble of his revelation, his question still persisted: _now what?_

He couldn't leave. He wouldn't entertain the thought for even a nanosecond. As reprehensible and incorrigible as it was, he knew his shame ultimately held no power over his desire. Connor resolved, then and there, that he would continue as if nothing had changed. He'd keep the hunger to himself, and make peace with the fact that shame was a price for his love. A new objective was something Connor was no stranger to. It was manageable. 

It was as manageable as it was painful. 

Sumo interrupted his thoughts with a small whine, asking to be let out, or to be fed. Connor was surprised to discover it was dusk. He’d been thinking, sorting, sitting motionless for hours. The Lieutenant would be home soon.

Connor readied himself for the Herculean effort that was pretending he was still blissfully ignorant— pretending that he didn't know he loved Hank. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a huge fan of Connor being portrayed as being 100% infantile-level dumb when it comes to love and feelings, but I also feel like there would be a moment of reckoning/realization. Hopefully these choices read as organic. 
> 
> I found myself unconsciously drawing on my own past experience, back when I was a baby lesbian and there was a huge, irreconcilable fissure between what I believed I should be/what I believed love was and what I actually was feeling and going through. I was kind of hesitant going the 'been in love the whole time, just hadn't realized it' route, but then I remembered my dumb ass first felt infatuation and love literal YEARS before I actually sat myself down and admitted what those feelings actually were. (And then it took another couple years of active repression and self-hatred after that, which, looking back over this chapter now, I can see seeped into my portrayal of Connor's crisis LMAO) 
> 
> Because what is deviancy in DBH if not an elaborate, extended metaphor for being gay? (joking, mostly)
> 
> ANYWAY, there will prob be like 2 more chapters of this. 
> 
> Hope y'all are surviving out here, and hope y'all are staying safe (and wearing a mask).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok this one is a mess. I've spent so much time trying to edit this that I don't know if it's decent or not. It's also kind of long, compared to the rest. Apologizes in advance to any typos I might have missed. 
> 
> One more chapter to go after this one!

Well, the time had come, like Hank knew it would. He could see it from 10 fucking miles away. Didn’t make it suck any less, though.

Connor was getting ready to leave. Hank was certain. There was no other explanation for his partner’s weird, cagey behavior. It was clear Connor was closing himself up like a clamshell because he was afraid to broach the topic.

If it wasn’t such a shitty situation, it would be kind of cute how Connor thought he was acting normal.

And sure, Hank wanted to feel anger. He was well acquainted with anger— it made plenty of sense. He had a playbook for anger. A script. A failsafe to make damn sure any crumbling bridge was burned, to make sure any surviving ties were cut.

But, _fuck—_ he didn’t feel any anger. It just hurt like hell.

It hurt like hell that Connor felt like he had to hide the impending truth. Ever since Monday night, Hank could sense the shift. He’d been asking nonchalantly if Connor was fine, probably making himself look like a nosy ass in the process.

Poor android was probably scared of what Hank’s reaction would be. Hank’s stupid, bitter ass certainly hadn’t given Connor any reason to believe he was a kind, understanding person. Yeah, they’d been living and working happily together for past few months, with no real problems. But nobody could ever forget the way Hank acted in those first days of their partnership. Hank would never forget.

The least he could do was swallow his pride and offer to help Connor find a new place. He had plenty of experience finding shitty apartments—he could actually be of some use, for once. (And what else could Connor afford with his current salary?)

So, Hank found himself acting like an adult in the face of painful emotions, because that’s what Connor deserved.

On Wednesday evening, after Connor spent damn near the whole work day with a yellow LED and a distant look in his eyes, Hank decided it was time to bite the bullet.

“Connor, uh—do y’need help with something?” Hank asked from his seat on the couch.

Connor was on the other side of the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, and trying to gently nudge an annoyed Janis Joplin closer to Sumo in his bed. Neither animal seemed particularly interested in becoming friendly with the other, but Hank got the sense they were humoring Connor.

After Hank spoke, Connor’s temple stuttered red for a split second. Even with his back partially turned to Hank, he could see the android’s expression quickly contort to his classic Robot Resting Face.

Hank had been seeing a lot of Connor’s RRF in the past few days. He was beginning to miss his partner’s near-imperceptible idiosyncrasies; they weren’t dramatic, but he'd learned to read them easily. They were sure signs that Connor was letting himself feel.

He zoned out for a moment as he thought of the way Connor tilted his head when Hank confused him, the way the angle and slope of his eyebrows subtly changed depending on his mood, the way his soft-looking lips turned up in a slightly crooked half-smile when he was enjoying himself—

“No” Connor pulled Hank back to reality as he replied, businesslike in his tone. “What do you mean?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. I’ve just—I mean, I noticed…you don’t seem to be happy here. And listen— if you’re wanting to move out, you can just tell me. It won’t hurt my feelings.”

Another flash of red. _Uh-oh._ What had Hank fucked up this time? His stomach dropped when something a little like fear ghosted across Connor’s soft eyes before he could return to his RRF.

“I don’t know where you got that impression, Lieutenant. But I am not planning on moving out. Unless you don’t want me here—”

“Not at all!” Hank’s voice was hoarse as his volume rose. The sudden increase in noise made Janis scurry away down the hall, and her sudden movement startled Sumo into a deafening, confused bark.

The room returned to a still silence as quickly as it erupted in noise, but the energy had changed. Connor watched him intently, more unreadable than he had been just a minute before, if that was even _possible._

“No. I don’t want you to leave. It’s good to have you here.” Hank huffed and cleared his throat after he spoke.

“It won’t hurt my feelings if you _do_ want me out.” Connor echoed Hank’s earlier choice of words, trying and failing to sound stiff and composed.

Hank frowned. _Jesus._ It was time to just be fucking honest before there was any more confusion—they were beating around the bush like teenagers. He sighed, trying to sound exasperated. He was unsure if it came across as he intended. Maybe his breath had been a little too shaky, too afraid.

_What the hell, Anderson? You’ve literally been shot before dumb ass. Buck up._

“Okay. We’re setting down some fucking ground rules.”

Connor raised a brow and blinked. He turned himself on the floor so he could face Hank properly.

“I’m gonna stop being a dipshit, and just assume you _want_ to be here, until you tell me otherwise. And in return, you’re not gonna assume _I_ want you out. Because I don’t. I—I can’t really even imagine a future where I wouldn’t want you here…Deal?”

Hank was well aware his tone had gone horribly gruff— he had to balance out his impromptu feel-good speech somehow. He wasn’t resorting to his usual anger, and he had no plan or script for what to say. So, embarrassing word-vomit from a middle-aged loser it was, then.

And it was a marvel Connor wanted to stay with him in the first place. Hank, of all people. Nonetheless, he hoped Connor could see past the pathetic parts of his partner for just a moment, so he could hear the truth. There was no RRF, so he must have done something right. And there was no more red LED. _Hallelujah. Holy shit. Where’s the Tylenol?_

Thankfully, the hint of a smile began to show itself on Connor’s face. The part of Hank’s brain with very little self-control indulged in a moment to appreciate just how much he loved the android’s face—especially when he let himself emote. It was beautiful, and goofy, and _hot,_ and smug, and _perfect_ , and bastard-y all at once. It was Connor. And _Jesus_ , he loved that it was Connor.

The more reasonable part of Hank’s brain politely told the other to _shut the hell up, for the love of God._

“Deal. I appreciate it, Hank.” Connor finally agreed.

The trace of his smile was blessedly still there, but his voice was strangely soft. And the way both his eyebrows fell just slightly clued Hank into something more. He used his decades of hardened-detective skills to come to a shocking conclusion: Connor was sad. Plain and simple, clear as day.

Part of Hank wanted to keep pushing, but he could tell the time for questioning was done. Another part of Hank wanted to second-guess himself and interpret that sadness as some sort of regret—like the fact all Connor had was Hank was something regrettable.

And yet another part of Hank— the infatuated one he usually kept locked up and refused feed— wanted to make his way down to the floor and hold Connor, maybe even kiss Connor, in some crazed, futile attempt to draw out his sorrow like sucking venom from a snake bite.

_Snap the hell out of it, dickweed._

Once he shook away his ugly, pathetic love—kicking it back into its cage before it could do any real harm, Hank reminded himself of their agreement; if he started making assumptions about what Connor was really thinking, he wasn’t holding up his end of the bargain. And that wasn’t fair to his partner.

Still, even as Connor shifted his focus back to Sumo and Janis, who had reluctantly returned, his sadness was clear. It was breaking Hank’s heart just a bit. He wanted to know what’d gotten into Connor. He wanted to put an end to whatever or whoever had thrown Connor off his game.

But Connor had a right to his privacy, and he had a right to his emotions— all of them. Not just the good ones. So, he settled for making his way to the fridge and cracking open a cold ‘booch. He took great care to bustle loudly, to clue Connor in on what he was doing.

When he returned to the couch, Hank couldn’t see Connor’s face, but reflected in the TV, his LED shone a tranquil blue.

_***_

Janis’s spaying was the latest appointment the vet had that Friday evening, and the emptiness and quietness of the waiting room seemed as good an opportunity as any for Hank to start nosing into Connor’s business again. Somehow, Hank managed to make it the rest of the week without bugging his partner again, and though the android was slowly uncoiling from whatever tension had plagued him earlier, it was still obvious _something_ was wrong.

Hank’d been mulling over the situation whenever his brain wasn’t focused on work, even after he rudely admonished himself for obsessing over Connor’s fucking emotional state. For Christ’s sake, Connor didn’t need Hank to work his shit out. But he couldn’t help working through possibilities and theories in his head, like it was a case.

And _fuck_ , he was an investigator wasn’t he? He could chase down leads like the the old days, before androids could just lick stuff and finger the perp in a matter of seconds. Renewed determination swept over Hank.

Seated next to him, Connor fiddled with his coin halfheartedly, not pulling out his fancy moves in favor of rhythmically rolling the quarter up and down his thumb, flipping it from one hand to the other only occasionally. Jesus, he must have been really fucked up when even his show-off nervous tic wasn’t so showy.

“Are you nervous about Janis?” Hank asked abruptly, breaking the silence.

He was going to get the most obvious leads out of the way first. Maybe he was worried about Janis’s health, or her happiness. Or maybe it finally dawned on the poor bastard just how ugly the cat was. Though, that last hypothesis was unlikely— Connor was smitten with her, no matter how rat-like she looked.

Connor looked away from his distant gaze at his own fingers, and looked to Hank. He smiled reassuringly.

“No. Her eye is doing much better, and the likelihood of a procedure so routine as spaying going wrong is very low” Connor spoke matter-of-factly. “Are you worried, Hank? I can assure you Janis Joplin will be fine.”

“Oh—uh, no, no. I trust ‘em to fix her up” Hank waved his hand, dismissing the concern gruffly.

With his first theory crossed off the list, Hank wondered what else could render the android so distant and downcast. He let the silence roll back in as he considered the possibilities.

Maybe somebody at work was bothering him—somebody whose opinion Connor cared about. But that ruled out Reed and pretty much the rest of the DPD. Connor couldn’t give less of a fuck about their opinions…So, maybe he was worried about Fowler’s assessment of his performance? But Connor was a cocky bastard. Even if he wasn’t, it would only take a quick scan—of the Captain’s facial expression, or the chemical makeup of his pheromones, or whatever the fuck else Connor could analyze with just one look—to learn Fowler was plenty satisfied.

Maybe it wasn’t his work at the DPD that had him fucked up— maybe one of Jericho’s leaders was the culprit. He knew Connor cared about what _they_ thought. It was one of the reasons he so readily offered his help at the new Jericho facility whenever he could. Hank wasn’t an expert at emotions, but he’d been able to read his partner enough to gather that Connor still struggled with immense guilt when it came to his role in the revolution. But he also knew Markus and the rest of his crew held no ill will toward Connor. He was as much their savior as he was their former enemy.

Either way, it was worth investigating. Hank glanced over at Connor to see he had returned to fiddling with the coin using his long, pale fingers.

“Hey— is anybody at Jericho giving you a hard time or something? If anybody’s fucking with you, I can…” Hank trailed off; he was far from weak, but what the hell could his middle-aged human self do to a gang of battle-hardened androids? He cringed just imagining the can of whoop-ass they could undoubtedly unleash on him.

Connor’s head swiveled back to Hank again, his amusement and exasperation plain to see.

“You can…go down there and give them a piece of your mind? Is that what you were about to offer, Hank?” Connor asked, clearly enjoying the gentle teasing. _Smug bastard._

“As entertaining as it would be to see you fistfight Markus or his girlfriend, I feel very welcome at Jericho. I’m not being bullied, if that’s what you’re implying.” Connor’s tone was had a finality to it.

Well, another thing off the list. Hank was glad Connor was a friend to Jericho at least— that he felt welcomed by the other androids. But his next guess felt trickier to broach. He’d been worrying about it himself, for a while now. And he’d been worrying that it was affecting Connor more than he let on. The next bullet on his list were the anti-android hate crime rates in Detroit.

Nobody expected the entirety of the city to get friendly with androids as soon as the ceasefire was called, or as soon as the evacuation order was lifted, or even after a hurried Congressional special session passed a set of provisional android protection laws to keep the country from going ass-up in flames. Still, it didn’t make it any less fucking depressing to see the steady stream of roughed-up androids coming into the station every week to file reports and make statements. And because of their prior experience, Connor and Hank were almost always assigned those incredibly shitty cases.

Hank let a few more minutes of silence pass, hoping Connor would suddenly, miraculously look less miserable in the interim. No dice.

“Is the workload getting to you? Because it’s okay to admit that” Hank managed to mumble out. He bowed his head and scratched the back of his neck, watching Connor through his periphery.

“I don’t feel stress the same way humans do” was Connor’s clipped reply.

“No, it’s not just stress, it’s the kinda shit they’ve saddled us with” Hank explained, pulling his head back up to make eye contact with Connor.

Maybe something in Hank’s face could communicate better than his own words. It didn’t seem to work— Connor watched Hank, waiting for him to elaborate further.

“The, uh, hate crimes lately—if they’re taking a toll on you, I can get Fowler to assign them to somebody else for a while if you need a break.”

Understanding softened Connor’s face.

“It doesn’t make me particularly happy to see the effects of the cultural climate, but I can compartmentalize in healthy ways. Has it been bothering you?”

“I mean— yeah, of course. But I can compartmentalize too, y’know? And dealing with the shittiest parts of humanity is part of the job anyway. I just…didn’t know if it got to you in a…shit, I don’t know— a deeper way”

Hank turned his gaze to his scuffed shoes, just to get away from the pure fucking _sweetness_ of Connor’s expression before his heart burst. He looked so damn thankful— just because Hank cared. The bar was low, and Hank didn’t deserve the android’s thanks. He didn’t deserve his forgiveness either. But Connor had so readily offered it.

_Jesus H._

Spiraling into his own guilty thoughts, Hank barely felt it when a hand landed gently on his knee. It took a second to register. But when it did, Hank hated how insanely _good_ Connor’s palm felt against the roughness of his jeans.

When his body caught up with his brain, he didn’t jump, and he tried his hardest not to tense up—with mixed results. Touching like this didn’t mean anything. Hank didn’t have to make it mean anything. His mouth dried out as he blinked stupidly at the pale hand on his leg, so he glanced at Connor’s face, as if that would make Hank feel any different.

The android’s LED was yellow, and he stared down at his own hand, in slight shock, at the point of contact, much like Hank had. He blinked twice and looked up, not moving.

“I truly appreciate your concern, Hank. I find the anti-android crimes…sad, you’re right. But being able to solve them, and being able to offer support to the victims makes me feel like I’m doing something productive. Like I’m contributing to change.” Connor’s brow furrowed just a fraction as he thought.

“I believe I’m doing what I should, where I am. I’m comfortable with the line of work. And I have you, Hank. I know I have a partner dedicated to fixing things, which makes the work all the more fulfilling” Connor explained.

He smiled in that faint, gentle way he’d done the other night, when they discussed their housing situation. It was as beautiful as any other of his smiles, but it was so painfully doleful. Hank had to look away again.

Fuck. Hank had gotten nowhere. Maybe his damn interrogation had make his partner even sadder. He was just a nosy, tactless asshole. He was a nosy, tactless asshole soaking up the android’s touch and affection when he didn’t deserve it.

“I’m happy to have you with me” Connor added quietly as he slowly drew his fingers back from Hank’s knee, tossing his coin into the now-free palm with the other hand.

“I’m happy to be there, Con” Hank replied, hoarse and awkward.

_Jesus H. Fuck. This stupid fucking android is gonna to kill me with kindness. That’s what’s happening here._

Lost in thought, and marveling at how warm he felt to hear Connor’s simple words, Hank jumped in his chair as one of the vet’s aides emerged from a hallway, her clear voice shattering the silence.

“Connor? Janis did great, we’ll have her ready to go home in about 20 minutes. Jason can set you up with a care guide, and you can finalize payment.”

***

“Don’t be alarmed, but Janis Joplin is approaching on your left. Act casual” Connor warned in a hushed tone, with as much resolute focus as if he were handling a hostage situation.

On the couch, Hank stilled and pretended to be wholly concentrated on the morning news. Connor, sitting cross-legged on the floor by Sumo’s bed, continued pampering the dog with belly rubs as if Janis was not instigating her very first slow, timid advance straight toward one of her new owners.

The poor rat had been humbled a little by the surgery and by the protective cone she had to wear. She was still all alley-cat, but that weekend Hank noticed she seemed to finally resign herself to accepting a modicum of love and care.

Fearful of scaring her away, Hank refused to move or make eye contact as Janis hopped up onto the arm of the couch and inched slowly toward the middle cushion. She sat, just inches from Hank, and tucked her sandy colored paws neatly under her body.

“This is a milestone” Connor said under his breath, clearly trying his damndest to stay subdued. Hank was nearly beaming at how thrilled Connor was; it was a welcome reprieve from the downcast aura his partner had radiated throughout the weekend.

For a while, the only noises in the room were Sumo’s happy sighs at Connor’s continued lavishing, and the faint drone of the T.V. Hank kept his body still, and maintained slow, even breaths. He could almost hear a purr, but maybe he was imagining it.

Although he’d just woken up an hour earlier, the contentment of his surroundings made Hank’s eyes heavy. He was happy to sit and do nothing but savor the peace of the moment. Happy to soak up Sumo’s slobbery dog-noises, Janis’s new proximity, and Connor’s palpable excitement.

He was _happy._ Full stop. _When did that fucking happen? Christ,_ he really was going soft. And he didn’t even care.

He dozed for a while, though he’d have been hard pressed to tell how long. A dim ray of sunlight had inched his way onto Hank at some point, filtered through the window. He was pulled from his semi-conscious state when a tentative paw pressed down on his leg, testing the waters. Opening his eyes slowly, Hank watched in awe as Janis moved into his lap, circling around on his legs a few times until she was confident he was a solid foundation.

Hank looked up at Connor, who gaped at the development. Both partners caught each other’s eyes and grinned stupidly. Slowly and soundlessly, Connor rose, eliciting a single whine from Sumo, and joined Hank on the couch. The android stared down at Janis in Hank’s lap as if she was some holy artifact and not a raggedy gremlin with a cone on her neck… _Fine._ Hank could see the appeal. She was sort of adorable, in her own way, Hank conceded mentally. He took a chance and scratched behind her ear gently.

“I can’t believe she came up here” Hank muttered in a low voice.

“I can. You’re warm, and she likes you” Connor shot back, equally quiet.

The android’s fingers slid forward to massage Janis’s neck, while Hank continued scratching her head. The partners’ elbows knocked together and their shoulders touched lightly. The contact was nearly electric, and Hank’s sleepiness from just a moment ago evaporated. He was wide awake and invigorated.

Too soon, Connor moved away from Hank’s side and shuffled to the other side of the couch, leaving the middle cushion empty again. He sat up perfectly straight, with his feet planted firmly on the carpet. He wasn’t relaxed. From his periphery, Hank could see those sad eyes again and that small, weak smile.

Everything about that morning was so damn _nice_ — there was no other, more poetic word for it. At least, it had been nice to Hank. But clearly Connor was still struggling.

“You didn’t have to go away” Hank grumbled, trying to pretend it didn’t matter to him either way.

“It’s fine” was all Connor had to say, quietly and void of any emotion.

That weekend, Hank had been thinking about what else could be bothering his partner, if it wasn’t Janis, or work, or Jericho, or the anti-android crime rates…maybe it was more personal. And _Jesus_ , Hank was no good at that kind of stuff. His guesses were just shots in the dark—maybe he’s lonely, or depressed. Maybe he has a crush. Maybe he’s going through an existential crisis, or he doesn’t like the way CyberLife made his face. Those were his working theories, all of them equally shitty and depressing.

Even a talented investigator— even Connor’s closest friend couldn’t solve the mystery through pure theorization. He had to start asking questions again.

Doubt made Hank hesitate, so he kept up his mindless petting of a very content Janis as he considered. Would prying into personal shit be crossing a line? Really, what advice could Hank impart? What help could he offer? But Hank reminded himself he was one of the few friends Connor had. Maybe lending a sympathetic ear would do.

Hank took a deep breath. _Fuck it._

“Hey, Connor?” He began and cleared his throat, getting his partner’s attention “I know you haven’t been… _okay_ lately. You gotta tell me— is there anything I can do to get you back to feeling yourself? I hate to see you like this.”

Connor blinked exactly 3 times and went blank. Back to Day 1. Back to _“My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”_ It stung.

 _Jesus_ , he was putting up some goddamn wall whenever Hank started asking these questions. He knew he should’ve just taken the hint days ago and stopped. But he couldn’t. Maybe it made him a jerk, or a creep, or clingy. Or maybe it revealed the way Hank loved Connor—and how that love was not wholly friendly nor platonic.

But Hank didn’t care anymore— it wasn’t about him, or what Connor thought of him. It was about Connor.

Hank kept his eyes trained on Connor, a solemn promise that he wasn’t letting it go this time. It looked as if it took Connor a few seconds to realize Hank wasn’t backing down in the face of his hollow, robotic stare. There was no machine in Connor any more, and it was starting to piss Hank off that the android pretended there _was_ when he started digging.

Regardless of the fact that both partners knew the emotional vacancy was an act, Connor’s Resting Robot Face stayed put as he began his reply.

“I can assure you, I’m fine. Any irregularities you’ve noticed, you’re misinterpreting them. Maybe you’re projecting?” Connor turned his head to face forward again, staring at nothing. Pretending he was on standby mode or some shit—the smug android had another thing coming if he thought that was enough to throw Hank off the trail. He busted drug dealers and murderers for a living, for fuck’s sake.

But, he had to hand it to Connor; a few months free-will and he was already deflecting and running from his feelings like a pro? _That_ took talent. Maybe Hank was rubbing off on the android more than he realized.

“You’re accusing me of projecting?” Hank challenged once he was done admiring the android’s impressive emotional stuntedness.

Connor let out a soft sigh. “No…I don’t really think you’re projecting. But you _have_ misjudged. I'm fine.”

At that moment, Janis decided she was done with her arguing owners and trotted away to her food bowl. She took with her the last shred of that morning’s peace, and Hank ground his teeth as he shot a frown at Connor.

“Do you think I’m stupid? Well— I might be stupid for the most part, but I can tell when you’re not feeling like yourself. And I know you did Russian levels of reconnaissance on me back in November. So you know I was good at my job at some point. I’m a detective, _Connor_. And I’m detecting that you’re not okay.”

 _God_ , Hank realized only after he spoke that his tone crossed into asshole-ish territory.

“Contrary to what you may believe, my LED does not follow the same rules as a traffic light. It’s not that simple. You don’t know what I’m thinking, Lieutenant.”

While Hank was getting assholey, Connor was getting truly pissed in his subtle, restrained way. But this wasn’t like any harmless argument they’d had about a case, or Hank’s diet, or Connor’s unfortunate licking habit. This was new territory entirely. _Fuckin’ A._

“It’s not just the damn LED. I know you. I’m your friend. I may not know what you’re thinking, but I can tell you’re unhappy. I wanna— I don’t know. Help. I wanna help.”

By the time he finished his sentence, Hank’s tone was no longer rude or combative. It was pleading. He couldn’t bring himself to care about how pathetic he probably sounded.

Connor blinked his eyes in quick succession again and his emotionless façade melted into anger. Real anger. _Shit._

“Why won’t you just let me be unhappy if I’m unhappy? I’m using a great deal of my processing power to work out certain things, so I apologize if it’s affecting my mood. I’m sorry if I’m not being perfect. I would like to be perfect again, but I can’t right now. I’m sorry. ”

Connor wasn’t quite yelling, but the anger infused in his voice was enough to floor Hank. He’d predicted annoyance, or exasperation, or even more blankness. He hadn’t expected this anger. Hank recognized it immediately as the same kind of desperate, defensive anger his partner had levied at him in front of Kamski’s ugly-ass, Soviet-prison-looking house, after he refused to shoot the Chloe.

“And it’s not like I have the luxury of getting drunk when I would like to stop feeling” the android added bitterly.

It was a shot below the belt. And it hurt a little—made Hank bite the inside of his cheek…But he knew he didn’t mean it. Saying and doing shit you didn’t mean and would regret later was at the core of human experience, as far as Hank could tell.

A small part of Hank— the nasty, defensive, volatile Hank of the past— was very tempted to get mean. Getting mean was his usual go-to. The urge was pure muscle memory, though. Hank would rather die than be mean to Connor, especially in his vulnerable state. He wanted nothing more than to be there for Connor. To be a comfort.

So, he took an even breath and tapped into the parts of himself that usually never saw the light of day. The parts that voiced feelings freely, even if they were embarrassing and damning. Hank braced himself for the effort, but it was surprisingly easy to feel his kindness swell up inside him. It was natural.

“You have every right to be unhappy. That’s a part of all this human shit. Look, Connor— I don’t fault you for not being fine all the time. Nobody is.” Hank began slowly, making sure he was saying exactly what he meant. “And hell, you could be a fucking asshole and I would be cheering you on the whole fucking way. Because I—” … _love you, no matter what?_

It was true. _Christ,_ it was so true. But he didn’t want to throw Connor into deeper turmoil just because he was a pathetic middle-aged drunk who couldn’t get over his crush. Connor was too good for the love Hank had to offer. He buried the unfinished sentence where it fell and soldiered on.

“But what I won’t do is sit here and do nothing when I can see that you’re suffering. I want to be there for you, I don’t wanna fix you. _Ugh_ , it sounds so sappy, but…I wanna offer a shoulder to…cry on—wait, can you even cry? Don’t answer that” Hank waved his hands, painfully aware of Connor’s unyielding eyes on him.

At some point, both of them had risen from the couch. They’d gotten closer and were properly face-to-face. Hank's entire body buzzed, tenuous and adrenaline-high.

“And if _you_ don’t want it, if you would rather me leave you alone while you figure this shit out, I will. I respect that…I’ll stop asking you if you’re okay. Tell me to fuck off. Just say the words, either way.” Hank furrowed his brow and nodded his head once, signifying he was done.

The anger was gone, but the RRF hadn’t taken its place. Connor just looked in pain again. Hank ached. He wanted to pull Connor in for a hug, in hopes that it would communicate his unconditional support in ways his inelegant words could never. But before he could consider it further, Connor backed away until he was closer to the front door than to the couch.

“I don’t want you to leave me alone. But I can’t accept your comfort either, it wouldn’t be fair to you” Connor replied, now looking down and away.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I _want_ to be there for you. It’s about what you want from me now.”

“You don’t understand Hank, I— I want everything from you. That’s the problem. I’m being selfish.”

Hank had no clue what to say to that. What did that mean? What did ‘ _everything’_ mean to Connor? Because Hank would give everything he had, in a heartbeat. But fear coursed through him when he considered the fact that their definitions of _‘everything’_ probably differed greatly. All Connor needed was for Hank to be a better friend. He wasn’t asking for anything else. Maybe Connor was right, and Hank had been projecting.

“I’m not telling you to ‘fuck off’. But…I think for now, I’m going to go out. I’ll be back by this evening. Please feel free to contact me should further issues arise.”

Hank didn’t comment on how Connor sounded more like an e-mail sign off than an actual person, but he certainly noticed it. Hank was well aware by now that Connor used his awkward social relations programming as a crutch when true expression was too much.

And then he was out the door. Hank had fucked things up again, per usual. _Jesus H._

He was bewildered as he stood, now alone, in the middle of the living room. Sumo’s wet nose on his limp hand drew him away from his shock. He could work with that— taking Sumo on a nice, long walk would jostle things back to normal.

Hank didn’t have many coherent thoughts as he walked aimlessly around the neighborhood with his dog. The thoughts he could string together weren’t particularly easy things to think about. Hank was the cause of his partner’s distress— he should have figured. It was like him to be careless and inconsiderate and…damn it. He didn’t even have it in him to be self-deprecating.

But still, he refused to consider that Connor might want him in _that_ way. _That_ would be projecting. That would be unfair. Hank’s feelings for Connor were relatively old news, and he forced himself forget them most times. He was an expert at tamping shit down. But his partner was making it hard when he was being so vague and cryptic. It left too much room for Hank to fill in the gaps with his stupid, annoying infatuation.

Besides, was Connor even into dudes? Hank _had_ caught Connor staring at that buff, near-naked Traci at the Eden Club. But maybe Connor was just visually analyzing the copious amounts of body glitter slathered on him, wanting to take an oral sample…on second thought, that rationalization wasn’t any less gay. Hank quickly decided that part didn’t matter. There was a world of difference between him and a sex android, or any other hot guy Connor might have taken interest in. Hank wasn’t attractive. He wasn’t lovable, by any stretch of the imagination.

Poor Sumo began to slow down an hour into their walk. And Hank was getting cold anyway. He let his thoughts fade back into nothingness as he resigned to return home.

Once Hank filled Sumo’s water bowl and indulged Janis in a few treats, he was back to square one. Wondering what to do while Connor was gone, wondering what would happen when he returned.

He didn’t really want to do _anything,_ but he had to pass the time somehow.

He couldn’t retreat to his bedroom and go to sleep. That would be hiding. And he didn’t want to sit on the couch, like he was waiting for Connor to return just so he could chew him out. And he would not drink. He could do that much for Connor. He could do that for himself too, for fuck’s sake.

Hank realized he didn’t even _want_ to drink that afternoon. Maybe when Connor returned, he’d be willing to talk. Maybe Connor would be _eager_ to talk. He wanted to stay sober for whatever was coming next.

Busying himself with making a pot of coffee, just for the ritual, Hank decided on staying in the kitchen. It was a neutral space. Once he had his first cup poured, he retrieved the remote and sat in one of the two kitchen table chairs. Turning up the volume on the T.V to tune out what few thoughts persisted in spite of his bewilderment, Hank settled in.

***

Keys rattled at the front door. Hank’s Zone Out Time was over. Once he locked the door behind him, Connor didn’t hesitate to make his way to the kitchen and join Hank at the table. Suddenly, the pot of coffee seemed like a dumb move— it sure as hell didn’t make him any less jittery.

His partner looked slightly more serene. There were no walls, no traces of anger, no RRF, at least. But hints of sadness remained. Hank offered him a half-smile, and surprisingly, Connor returned a weak one of his own as he pulled his chair in. They sat in silence for a minute or so. 

“I’m not gonna ask where you went, if that’s what you’re waiting for. I’m done being a prying asshole for now.” 

“I appreciate your concern for my privacy, but I don't mind. I walked around IKEA for a few hours, for what it’s worth. Not very thrilling.”

Hank stifled a chuckle at the mental image.

“Would you have laughed if I said I visited the Eden Club?” Connor asked, a soft smile playing on his lips.

Hank snorted, happy to see Connor joking again “Yeah, I probably would've.”

“Good to know.”

“Did you actually go?”

Connor raised an eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed at the suggestion. “No, Hank. Of course not.”

Hank shrugged, mustering a sarcastic grunt. They were starting to settle back into their usual easy banter. Thank God. Or rA9. Or whoever.

“Hey, if that was what you did, I wouldn’t judge you…too much. Maybe you found some comfort with one of those twink Tracis.”

Connor’s LED went yellow for just a small moment, but then his smile returned, a little less playful now. 

“I don’t think that’s my type.”

Connor caught Hank’s eyes with his own. There was no obfuscation here. Hank knew what that look meant. His heart went from a light racing to a violent, heavy pounding. Heat rose up around the sides of his face, like blinders on a horse. Forcing him to focus on Connor. Only Connor. He felt cornered, but he didn’t entirely mind the sensation.

It seemed the ball was in Hank’s court now, and it was clear Connor was waiting for him to speak— not quite a challenge. An invitation. So Hank took it.

“You said earlier you wanted everything. What…does that mean? To you.”

“You don’t know? You insisted you were a good detective, earlier.” Connor was clearly trying to infuse some humor into their discussion, but he ducked his head down, like he was ashamed. It broke Hank’s heart.

“I’ve misunderstood you before. Please, Connor. I’m kind of coward if we’re being honest here. Can you be the one to say it? Whatever _it_ is?”

“You’re not a coward. I’m not going to entertain any self-deprecation during this discussion.” Connor scowled with a resolute anger. Jesus, he was beautiful.

Hank snorted gracelessly in acquiescence of Connor’s request.

“I…meant that I want _you.”_

_Jesus H._

“Like…in the, uh. A romantic sense?” Hank’s throat had gone dry, and his volume was low. Almost a whisper.

“Yes. And I am deeply sorry for that. I tried to stop it, for your sake. I know you can’t reciprocate, and that is absolutely fine. I didn’t keep it discreet enough, and I feel like I manhandled you into this conversation, which isn’t fair. I won’t blame you if you want to forget th—“

“Hold on. Who said I can’t reciprocate?” Hank spat out, interrupting Connor’s steady stream of guilt and apology.

Connor blinked and tilted his head just a little.

“I’m an android.”

“And I’m a lapsed Catholic. What the hell does any of that have to do with any of this?” Hank snorted.

“Look—I know I was stupid before, and I’m so fucking sorry for that. Really. But I don’t think of you as anything other than _Connor_. Connor’s an android. Connor’s also a pretentious bastard, and my partner, and kind of stupid, and handsome, and a bunch of other shit.”

Hank quieted himself before he could continue rambling. Connor blinked again, but didn’t seem to take offense at being called a pretentious bastard or stupid. His LED flickered yellow.

“Are you attracted to men—or android-men?”

“ _Connor_. You saw the Ziggy Stardust Halloween get-up. What do you think, dumb ass?” Stupid fucking android.

Connor laughed—truly laughed at that. The laughter seemed to catch Connor off guard, and Hank swelled with pride, which momentarily overpowered the absolute awkwardness of the conversation.

“I guess I already suspected. I have noted physiological signs of your attraction toward a number of males before. Toward me, for example…Toward the…‘ _twink’_ HR400 during the deviant case, even” Connor smirked before his mouth morphed to form a frown.

He picked at his the sleeve of his sweater; he wore a merlot cable knit that highlighted the warmth of his skin, of his hair, and of his eyes—it made him glow just a little…Or maybe Hank was just so stupidly in love that Connor radiated warm light all the time, no matter what he was wearing. That was the most logical conclusion.

“But I understand humans’ bodies are unruly. A physical response doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I wasn’t going to assume.” Connor’s frown deepened even further.

Hank had to fucking get over the embargo between his brain and his mouth. Connor didn’t deserve to doubt any longer.

“When it was you…it, uh…meant something. ” Hank mumbled, horribly embarrassed. At least he managed to get words out. It was a start.

Connor’s head snapped up abruptly, and he looked truly shocked.

“You confirmed you _can_ reciprocate, but you _do_ , correct?”

Hank could feel Connor’s tension in the air like it was electricity. Fuck, maybe it was electricity. Having an android roommate taught Hank absolutely nothing about android anatomy. He shook away the questions and forced himself to make eye contact with Connor again. He thought it would be hard. But dear God _,_ it was the easiest thing in the world to catch Connor’s warm eyes with his own and keep them there.

“Correct.”

At Hank’s response, he felt Connor’s nervous energy breaking like a wave. Hank’s did too, for that matter.

And then, suddenly, no more grey-area. It was just Hank and Connor. An almost painful stillness rolled in, replacing the previous static that charged the room.

“Now what?” Hank asked, unaware he’d even spoken until after the fact.

Connor didn’t move, he just continued holding Hank’s gaze. The android knew just as much about what was going to happen next as Hank did, it seemed. _Great._ They were both inept.

But maybe Hank could gently nudge Connor into action. Not feeling like he needed any more words to make his point, Hank simply leaned back in his seat and let his arms uncross. _Take the reins. You can do what you want with me. Please._

Connor rose from his chair and took a confident step toward Hank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *azealia banks voice* the girls are fightinggg aaaa
> 
> Have a good week y'all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This final chapter is just 4k words of fluff. But I deserve fluff! You deserve fluff. Vive la Révolution.

_“Now what?”_ Hank had asked.

That was a good question, Connor thought. He wanted to do everything with Hank— what should come _first,_ though?

Even considering Connor’s highly advanced processors, the amount of information rushing at him all at once was incredibly overwhelming. In addition to reviewing and analyzing their conversations that day, studying Hank’s current physical condition, and thinking idly of how he needed to refill Janis Joplin’s water soon, an astonishing number of pre-constructions were playing themselves out for Connor, each one just as thrilling as the last.

As he thought, he maintained eye contact with his partner, whose heart rate was understandably quite high. Connor realized his own thirium pump was operating at a faster-than-average rate, spurred by the increased strain on his processors. It was oddly comforting that, for all their differences, they had racing hearts in common.

Connor was vaguely aware that Hank was waiting for his reply, but Connor had no clue what ought to come next. He’d planned for what _might_ come next only in distant fantasies that were colored with a significant amount of shame. But now there was no shame. No doubt. No question. No more fantasy. Just Hank, waiting for him across the table.

Connor was wholly untethered.

His partner sat back in the kitchen chair, and his arms fell from his chest to his sides. Luckily, Connor was an expert at reading body language— he was designed for it. Consequently, he knew immediately that Hank was opening the door wide, inviting him in.

With a great deal of effort, Connor shut away every computation, every thought, every other subroutine that fired away at the back of his mind, and focused solely on Hank. The Lieutenant was teeming with life— his blood ran steadily and healthily, his skin was hot, and his eyes were wide and clear and _aware._ The android was drawn so deeply toward Hank that his first move, at least, was abundantly obvious.

He stood, following the beacon of his partner’s warmth, and stopped a few inches in front of Hank, who was still seated. Connor looked down at Hank and cocked his head slightly, studying and cataloging every inch of the human with surgical precision. The first objective— get closer to Hank—was easy enough to complete. The second objective, however,— _touch Hank_ — left plenty of room for interpretation. What should he touch first? Of course, the pair had touched before, but this was bound to be different, Connor thought. Connor _knew_ it was bound to be different, so whatever he did first ought to be special. He panicked as he realized he needed to make it _count._

Cold, objective calculations began to bleed back into Connor’s awareness. On some level, he recognized he was needlessly complicating things. But old habits died hard. With every millisecond that passed, the space between the partners became more charged, more taut. Hank was tense and coiled below Connor, but he remained steadfast in his invitation; he only moved his head and eyes to follow his partner.

Connor was sure that Hank, kind and patient as he was, would happily wait however long it took him to decide exactly what to do. Connor, on the other hand, could wait no more. He had to do _something,_ immediately.

Planting his legs firmly and bending at the waist, Connor leaned down closer to Hank until their faces were just an inch apart. The receding space between them seemed to crackle with unharnessed electricity. Connor couldn’t bring himself to touch just yet— he was still trying to figure out the best way to complete his second objective. He outstretched his arms and braced his hands against the back of the chair, on either side of Hank’s shoulders. Making himself a barrier between his partner and the rest of the kitchen, the rest of the world. Trapping the heat and static between them.

 _So many options_ , Connor marveled as he drank in Hank’s peculiar beauty. Below him, his partner remained surprisingly still for a human. Surprisingly calm. It was clear Hank trusted him unquestioningly. At the thought of his partner’s deep trust, a fresh onslaught of energy and heat surged in Connor’s chest.

For months, Hank had been encouraging Connor to fall headfirst, blunderingly and without any reservation, into desire. It had never come naturally to the android, up until that moment. But that moment, Connor could finally feel himself falling forward into exactly what he wanted, light and heavy all at once. He finally understood what Hank had meant.

In the steadily quieting part of his consciousness that could still form coherent thoughts other than _want, want, want,_ Connor considered how, to humans, a proper first kiss was usually on the lips. But he was inexplicably drawn to Hank’s neck—the skin there was tanned and gently worn from decades of summers spent outdoors, and it was becoming exceedingly hot.

Finally, blessedly closing the gap between their bodies, Connor pressed his lips gently to a particularly warm spot at Hank’s neck, earning him a quiet hitch of breath.

The wave of relief at first contact washed away the final shreds of Connor’s higher brain.

Once he had satisfied himself at Hank’s neck, and then at his sturdy collarbone, Connor followed his desire straight to Hank’s mouth. Breaking his stillness, the Lieutenant hungrily drove his face forward before Connor could close the space himself.

Their kiss began soft and slow, but was by no means chaste. To Connor, it was perfect. And judging by Hank’s physiological response, he felt the same way.

Before, Connor was horribly worried he wouldn’t know what to do in terms of the physical aspects of romance—that he’d have to put thought and consideration behind every move to make it perfect. But to his great relief, something entirely instinctual— not originating from his core programming, and instead from the core of his consciousness— lead him impulsively and passionately.

Increasing the points of contact connecting the pair, Hank steadied his hands on Connor’s hips as he stood. He couldn’t identify who the low moan came from, nor could he pinpoint who broke their kiss for just a beat to inhale sharply. Those details didn’t matter so much to Connor anymore.

While nudging him gently against the nearest wall, Hank’s large, rough hands slid up to hold Connor’s face tenderly. Connor’s own hands had found themselves wrapped desperately around his partner’s waist, though he wasn’t sure exactly when they’d made their way there. And neither knew how long they’d been pressed together, but as they both grew increasingly messier and faster with their kisses and hands, Connor recognized his desire was leading him right toward the bedroom. Hank happily, wordlessly, obliged.

***

Connor allowed himself to go into a short stasis period a little after midnight, although he was reluctant to miss Hank’s steady breathing beside him. The feel of warm air on his neck as his partner exhaled. Hank’s arms around his waist, drawing him close.

But, given the nature of what Connor did that night, he knew giving his processors some time to cool down and recalibrate was a good idea. He was ready to go and fresh as ever by the time the pre-dawn hours arrived. The android kept his back pressed tightly up against Hank, who’d barely moved an inch since he’d first fallen asleep.

On any other morning, Connor wouldn’t hesitate to get the day started. On this morning, he couldn’t fathom leaving the warmth of Hank’s bed anytime soon.

Connor let himself remember last night’s activities in great detail, while Real-Time Hank entered what would likely be his last REM stage of the morning. Amidst the heady memories—so much sweeter and realer than a simple footage review—certain stimuli-response subroutines fired up without prompting, simulating a tight coil of heat low in his stomach. Hastily and a little embarrassed, Connor manually shut them down with a quick command. He knew there would be plenty of time to revisit that desire with Hank in the future.

Pulling himself fully back to the present, where weak blue light began to peek in through the window, Connor considered his current situation. He’d never shared a bed with another soul, never slept with someone, never was allowed to keep constant physical contact with his partner, uninterrupted for _hours._ Had never before felt the kind of warmth and contentment brought on by being held tightly in a lover’s arms. _Hank’s_ arms.

The intimacy was logically, realistically, factually still new and foreign. But that plain truth meant nothing to Connor. It was all so beautifully, sublimely normal. It was the same kind of normal that Connor felt when he walked Sumo with Hank, when he went to work with Hank, or when he baked in the kitchen while Hank bustled around him, cooking— this was simply a natural extension of the bliss he’d been indulging in all these months.

It was the same as last night, when his body knew exactly what he wanted, knew exactly what to do, and knew where to touch. That, and curling up against a sleeping Hank in bed were the most natural things in the world.

Despite being an android programmed with the ability to stay completely still for hours, in stand-offs or stakeouts, Connor had become highly impatient post-deviancy. Another part of his personality, he figured, irrational and arbitrary. By half-past-6, Connor could wait no longer for Hank to wake up. He wanted to kiss his partner again.

The least he could do was make it a pleasant, gradual wake-up. Luckily, he could tell his partner was at the tail-end of his REM stage, and the deep sleep was showing signs of wearing off. Connor started with lowering his core temperature a few degrees, gently cooling off the bedsheets and the human against his back. Next, he increased the volume of his simulated breathing, just slightly. With just a few well-timed huffs and adjustments next to the Lieutenant, Connor began to hear even breaths breaking up into shallower sighs. There couldn’t have been a more seamless transition from sleep to wakefulness, if Connor did say so himself.

A minute or so passed, and Connor finally gave in to his desire to turn around and face Hank.

Bleary-eyed and hoarse, but with no trace of grumpiness, Hank muttered “good morning” and blinked at Connor. As if he was trying to work out if this was real.

“You’re not dreaming” Connor supplied, softly.

Hank grinned and rolled his eyes. “That’s exactly what Dream Connor would say.”

Seeing Hank’s rare wide smile inspired a renewed wave of giddiness in Connor. He wriggled closer up next to his partner and pressed his lips to Hank’s, supremely pleased as Hank immediately kissed back, deeper.

Maybe this _was_ a dream, Connor wondered. He’d never experienced dreaming himself, but he guessed this was what good dreams were like.

“You’re beautiful” Connor uttered reverently once he pulled away and got another good look at Hank, allowing himself to be unfiltered.

Hank’s thumb traced Connor’s wide jaw, while Connor ran his middle and index fingers along his partner’s lips.

“ _‘Beautiful’_ isn’t the word I’d use, Con” Hank grumbled around Connor’s fingers, clearly a little self-conscious.

Moving his legs to tangle easily with Hank’s, and moving his fingers up to run through Hank’s hair, Connor considered semantics for a moment. He stopped just short of downloading the contents of every dictionary in every language, and then smiled at Hank.

“You’re right. Maybe _‘beautiful_ ’ doesn’t capture what I’m trying to convey” Connor began, giving Hank another quick kiss before continuing. “But there are no proper words to describe how I see you.”

“Okay, Shakespeare—just don’t start comparing me to a fucking summer’s day” Hank muttered as he moved his head lazily down to kiss, feather-light, along Connor’s bare shoulder; a quiet sigh he had no control over escaped from the android’s mouth at the touch.

“No, you misunderstand. Rest assured, I’m not attempting poeticism…It’s just that human language isn’t my native tongue, so to speak. Androids see the world the same way you do, but we interpret and classify things in very different ways. Ways that don’t involve words” Connor tried to explain, though he was slightly distracted by Hank’s steadily increasing heart rate and lips on his neck.

“And this is in no way insulting your intelligence, but you couldn’t even begin to understand my own personal taxonomy system…so, _‘beautiful’_ will have to suffice. ‘ _Handsome’_ works too, I believe.”

Connor paused to think, but he was interrupted when Hank placed a dizzying, wet kiss at the base of his throat, nipping lightly at the synthetic flesh. Connor could do nothing but smile dumbly at how ridiculously good it felt.

“Or maybe _‘fucking sexy’_ is more correct” he breathed out, just barely stifling a moan as Hank repeated the action.

“Hey—” Hank snapped “no cursing under my roof.”

Connor gently tugged at Hank’s hair, pulling him back up to eye-level. He blinked once and lifted a brow high as it could go, deadpanning. After a beat, he chuckled lightly as his partner barked out a short laugh.

They took a brief intermission from speaking, opting for further kissing instead. When it was time for Hank to breathe again, he pulled away from Connor and studied his face.

“You’re sweet. Made me _blush,_ for fuck’s sake, complimenting me like that” the Lieutenant finally spoke, feigning annoyance; Connor was thrilled that at least Hank _took_ the compliments.

“I know” he replied, slightly smug.

Interrupting the conversation, the alarm on Hank’s cellphone chipped annoyingly. It was a Monday. And for the first time in his existence, Connor was not thrilled at the prospect of having to go to work. A little shocked at the novelty, he let out a low groan for dramatic effect

“Oh come _on_ , you’re not tired” Hank quipped as he sat up and silenced his phone on the bedside table.

“No, I’m not tired. I just want to stay here, in bed” Connor sighed, not making a move.

“I get it” Hank agreed. Thankfully, the Lieutenant slid back down under the blanket, and laid on his side, facing Connor again. “Five more minutes?”

“Or we could go in late. Go in at…11, maybe?”

“Jesus Connor, 11?” Hank stared at his partner in shock.

“Why not? I’d like to have more sex, if you’re amenable” Connor replied bluntly. He was rewarded with another toothy grin.

“Abso-fuckin’-lutely.”

Needing no further encouragement, Connor nudged Hank onto his back and hoisted himself above his partner in a flash, supporting most of his weight with his hands, on either side of Hank’s head— Connor was incredibly heavy machinery, after all.

Hank’s pulse spiked as he looked up into Connor’s eyes with unbridled… _adoration._ The gaze felt so good on Connor, it nearly hurt. He had to say something— make his own adoration known before he spontaneously combusted.

“Before we begin—” Connor spoke seriously, drawing a deliciously frustrated groan from Hank below him. “I need to express to you how unsure I’ve been about almost everything since going deviant. But, one of the very few things I’ve been entirely certain of, this whole time, is how I feel about you. You— your life means so much to me” He managed to choke out, raw emotion clinging to his throat.

It hit Connor in that moment how much they’d been through, in such a brief period of time. He didn’t think he believed in the concept of fate or destiny, so all he felt was an intense gratitude for whatever coincidence or butterfly wing or cosmic dice roll brought him to Hank. And even though their first week together had been characterized by so much stress and uncertainty, he couldn’t help but be grateful that if he _had_ to go through it, at least he went through it with Hank.

Maybe he’d been holding his breath all this time—since November, waiting for more turmoil and unrest. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for everything to crumble.

But pure relief washed over him as he stared down at Hank, reveling in the plain fact that both he and Hank were still alive. That they were still together. If he could cry, he would have. Even Hank’s eyes were slightly red-rimmed. He allowed himself to feel all that emotion in full, and then remembered the pressing task at hand— one which he was very eager to get back to.

“Alright, I think that’s everything. We can have sex now.” Connor declared matter-of-factly before letting instinct take over once more.

***

Although it was a relatively slow work day, both partners stayed late to make up for that morning. Connor prided himself on his stellar professionalism, but the urge to corner Hank in the break room and kiss him until his knees fell out from under from was terribly strong. Of course he didn’t act on the compulsion at their place of employment—he would’t dream of it.

When they got home, however, Connor no longer found himself bound to the same standards.

Hank had just barely finished locking the door behind him before Connor pushed him to the wall and kissed him feverishly, fulfilling the desire he’d been harboring all day. When Hank paused for breath, he shook his head, grinned mischievously at Connor, and muttered “fuckin’ maniac”.

But Hank’s faux-complaint didn’t stop them from migrating clumsily to the couch to continue that morning’s exploits.

Working late, paired with Connor being a ‘ _fuckin maniac’,_ meant that it was well past dusk by the time Hank finally made it to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Connor happily helped him throw together a quick stir fry, and they returned to the couch while Hank ate. The pair watched the evening news, minds only half-focused on current events.

Connor was busy marveling at how much he loved touching Hank. How much he loved it when Hank touched him. How much he loved making dinner together, quiet and peaceful. How much he loved Hank.

And while Connor wasn’t a mind reader, part of him guessed that Hank’s thoughts followed a similar trajectory. That, or Hank was focusing all his mental energy on inhaling his large plate of rice and vegetables— their activities had worked up his appetite.

Once Hank finished his dinner, he looked toward Connor, almost shy. Odd, considering he had been far from shy just an hour before.

“Yes?” Connor prompted.

“You might be tired of being near me, but if you wanted to c'mere, I wouldn’t be opposed.” Hank answered, slightly gruff. He patted his fleece-clad thigh and opened up his arm a little.

 _Ah._ Connor grinned, realizing the cause of Hank’s shyness. He wanted to cuddle, and he was embarrassed to ask. The android found it a bit adorable. Endearing.

“It would be my pleasure” Connor answered, wasting no time shuffling closer to his partner on the couch. He turned sideways and laid down partially on Hank’s lap, head and shoulders propped up by the arm rest.

It was a cozy fit, and Hank’s warm hand immediately found a comfortable place on Connor’s cheek.

“You’re very soft hearted, Hank. I like seeing this side of you.” Connor half-teased as he leaned into Hank’s touch.

“Oh, shut up” His partner answered, exasperated and going a little red. "You’ve seen every other fucking side of me. Might as well see this one” Hank grumbled, softer now.

“Thank you. Really” Connor replied, wholly sincere now.

He leaned up to give Hank a chase kiss, and then took a millisecond to fully appreciate how he could kiss Hank whenever he wanted. The knowledge was exhilarating and comforting all at once.

“And...I just gotta double check—you really want me, Connor?”

“Have I not made that blatantly clear?” Connor answered Hank’s question with another question.

“No, no—you have. But that’s the crazy part, that you want me at all” Hank replied quickly.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything. Are you sure you want me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m sure.” Hank was incredulous, stroking Connor’s cheek once as if to punctuate his point.

“And so you see how silly that line of questioning is?” Connor asked patiently. 

Hank rolled his eyes, but his face softened and fell into a familiar crooked half-smile. He vocalized in short agreement.

“And, uh— you don’t just want the sex, do you? You want this too?” Hank gestured vaguely at himself and at Connor with his free hand at _“this”._

“Yes. I’d like it all. If you’re willing."

"More than willing. I’d like it all, too. If you’re totally sure…” Hank answered, offering Connor one more escape route.

“ _Hank_ ” was all Connor said, in a warning tone.

"Right, right. Sorry…I want the domestic shit, the romantic shit. Long-haul stuff...And the sex, too—don’t get me wrong” Hank finally conceded.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

The partners fell into a comfortable silence, allowing the television to drone on without their attention. Connor let his eyes close, tuning into Hank’s soft touch. Occasionally, Hank ran his thumb across Connor’s cheekbone, or allowed his index finger to ghost lovingly over Connor’s steady blue LED. Sumo’s slobbery, slightly brachiocephalic pants of contentment served as white noise along with the television’s hum. If Connor had the ability to drift off to sleep, he was fairly confident he would have. But, he was happy to float in his lazy state of consciousness. It was close enough.

His eyes only opened when he heard the fait trot of Janis Joplin moving from the hallway to the living room. Remaining still, Connor watched from his periphery at how she edged closer to the couch, eyeing Hank and Connor.

“Y'think she’s gonna come up?” Hank asked quietly out of the side of his mouth.

“Possibly. I’m going to turn up my surface temperature just a little, if you don’t mind? That might entice her."

“Go for it” Hank encouraged.

Warming himself up, Connor tried his hardest to emulate the spirit and general essence of a sunny spot on a carpet. After a moment or so, it seemed Janis had made up her mind. Without further hesitation, she hopped gracefully up to the couch, by Connor’s legs. Interested in the warmth, she sidled up to his torso and eventually decided the warmest, comfiest spot would be in the center of Connor’s chest.

It was hard to contain his elation, but Connor managed. He could celebrate once she was gone from his person. He tried not to stare too much into her serene green eyes that were so close to his own face.

“Well, fuck me” Hank whispered lowly. “She’s acting like a cat.”

“I can’t believe it, if we’re being honest. I expected getting to this point would take months, if it happened at all” Connor replied, dumbstruck at how soothing her purr was against his shirt.

The only things possibly more soothing were Hank’s legs against Connor’s back, and Hank’s hand on his face,

“You’re warm, and she likes you” Hank repeated Connor’s words from the previous day verbatim.

“You’re warm, and I like _you_ ” Connor said with a silly grin, angling his head to get a better look at Hank. His partner bit down a laugh, clearly not wanting to startle Janis.

“ _Jesus H,_ Connor. You’re fucking goofy, y’know that?” Hank looked down at Connor half in disbelief, half in love.

“I know” Connor agreed as he reached up around Janis’s cone to scratch behind her ear.

Another few moments passed in happy silence, before Hank spoke again, unexpected and unprompted.

“Look, uh…I’ve never been the first one to say it— and there are all these human rules about when you should or shouldn’t say it. And I’m probably saying it too soon—and _you_ don’t have to say it if you don’t want to, but—” Hank rambled, a little quiet and shaky

“—I’m sorry, Hank… _‘it’_ being?” Connor interrupted, cocking his head. He turned his chin up to look into his partner’s eyes.

“I love you.” This time, his voice was smooth and clear.

“You probably already know that though, with your batshit analysis programs and all that…” Hank added with a wry smirk.

The increased beating of his thirium pump prompted Janis to open one eye, likely trying to figure out what that new sensation was, before deciding she was far too comfortable to care.

Connor beamed at Hank. “It’s still nice to hear you say it. And I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I've never posted fanfiction before, and I've barely even written fanfiction either, so this was new but also super escapist and fun! 
> 
> (Maybe one day I will get around to posting some kind of gay, feminist fix-it fic for twilight, because I'm a firm believer in the twilight renaissance.)
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed this, and I hope y'all stay safe out there!!


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